Title: The Tale of Marian
Chapter: 22/?
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: OFC/Haldir
Genre: Adventure/Romance/perhaps a little Angst
Timeline: AU, modern times.
Beta: None this chapter.
Feedback: Welcomed, begged for, appreciated.
Warnings: Sexual content.
Author's Notes: This is a work in progress.
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1 for disclaimer.
THE TALE OF MARIAN
CHAPTER 22 – I see the same stars through my window that you see through yours but we're worlds apart, worlds apart.
27 September
I have never known Jason to speak so seriously. We have made up quite
nicely, and our friendship is even deeper for it. I have been wrong
to think that I could never see him as the same person again. He is
still genuinely Jason, through and through. A tremendous burden has
been lifted from my mind, and I walk with a lighter step. With Jason
by my side, the challenges that lie before me no longer seem
insurmountable.
I brought him home and fed him tonight. It was the least I could do,
as he had stocked my refrigerator and he looked like he was starving.
In the safety of my house, he took off his prosthetic ears - his own
were quite beautiful - and did whatever it was he did to regain that
elven glow that everyone in Methentaurond has in one degree or
another. It was the fea - the Light of the soul - he said. Those who
had seen Valinor with their own eyes were the brightest of all. He
told me with reverence how Galadriel had appeared, and an elf lord
called Glorfindel. Having the privilege of seeing Jason as he truly
was took my breath away - as all of the elves did.
I finally showed him my list. He agreed with Haldir and Lindir that
the experts I said I needed were appropriate. The trick would be to
find people who were passionate about their professions and what they
could offer to society, and would be inspired to come with us and not
give us away (or have us shut away!). These people would believe in
the magic of the human spirit and its ability to transcend the norm -
who could believe, no insist, that we all could make our world better
if we tried. They also had to be people who would live and work well
together.
And I was the one who would have to convince them. What would I say?
"What if I told you that there is an ancient culture hidden in the
wilds. A culture that knows of us without us knowing of them, that
has lived secluded from us by choice, and by necessity.
Its people live as part of the earth, not in domination over it.
They believe the higher good is to preserve beauty. They value
faith, valor, truth, and stewardship of nature above possessions,
dominance and power.
They grieve for our careless waste of the gift we have been given.
We have made a good start. We have banned our most harmful
chemicals, reduced our acid rain. We have begun to build healthier
buildings, replace lost wetlands, and to find other, better types
of transportation.
But we are over-fishing our oceans, destroying our coral reefs. We
are paving over our crop fields and building mega-dams that destroy
the life of our rivers. We continue to create nuclear wastes that
we cannot completely contain.
This culture - these people - are strong. Their society has
existed for millennia, but now they are dying because we have made
the earth sick. In spite of our planet's resiliency, soon it will
not be able to heal itself, at least not in a way that we can
thrive on it and not sicken and die ourselves.
It is too late for them. They are the indicators, the sign that we
too will soon follow them if we do not act now.
What if I told you that this culture believes that we are its
legacy; its final calling. They believe that, before they die,
they must teach us how to heal the earth. They will give us hope,
and the means to succeed. By learning their ways we could learn
once again to respect the earth - to save ourselves. If only we
would come to them, learn from them, and then, when they are gone,
to teach the world what we have learned.
Would you believe me? Or would you dismiss me as a far left-wing
socialist, wacko environmentalist who has finally gone truly and
irrevocably mad?
What if I told you that I am none of those things? I have simply
come to know these people. I have seen their home. I know that
what they can offer us will never come again, and that if we do not
embrace this treasure now, it will disappear forever with them.
Would you come?
And if you came, if you entered this sanctuary, would you keep it a
secret while you learned, a treasure that you would guard from all
harm? Would you join me to preserve and protect their home from
the greedy and the power-hungry, from those who would squander it
for their own purposes and then carelessly destroy it after?
And when we were ready, would you help me give it to the world?"
To trust strangers with such a calling is a desperate long shot, I
know. But it is our only hope. Jason reminds me that I was once a
stranger, too.
It will, as Jason has warned me, be a difficult and risky business.
We will have to think like fugitives, he says. We can trust no one
but each other, if we are to avoid being discovered too soon, avoid
having Methentaurond taken from us, ruined.
His words scare me, because they are wise and true. Not that I wasn't
already scared.
I tell him I don't know how to think like a fugitive. Not
surprisingly, he tells me that he does. I warn him there is always
one traitor in any group, like Judas, who will choose money or fame
over the ideal.
He tells me that it can't be helped; we will simply have to find
people with the right motivation.
Simply?
Besides, he tells me with the charming and casual assurance that only
Jason can muster, we are not destined to fail, with a traitor as the
instrument: We are destined to succeed!
So we will use all of the technology at our disposal, but only to find
potential people to contact. We will meet the people we choose in
person; verbal communication only. We will show them my notebooks, my
pressed plants, Jason's ring, but we will not allow a scrap to be
borrowed or taken out of our sight. There will be no records, nothing
to give us away. We will go underground.
Jason quotes Charles Manson with a crooked grin, something like:
"Extreme paranoia is only extreme awareness."
I wish he would use a more appropriate example.
Marian and I spent long days in the office and long hours each night at her house searching, finding, discarding and refining our list of people to approach about Methentaurond. Finally one morning about 2 am, Marian asked me to move in with her. We were together so much, she explained, it seemed like the sensible thing to do.
Marian is so darned sensible.
She worried aloud to me that living with her would cramp my love life, but I waved her off. Did she think I had no control at all? True, the ladies were bereft at my recent inattention to their needs. I was sure, I teased her, that once they heard I had moved in with her, they would cry themselves to sleep for weeks. But they would move on. And they would always have the memories.
When we told Ed, all he said was "It's about time."
So everyone thought we were finally sleeping together. We did nothing to correct their assumptions. Their assumptions would make it that much easier to leave together when the time came. And of course, as Marian disgustedly accused me after I had pinched her several times in front of Billie and most of the rest of the office (although she quite wrongly said fondled), I quite enjoyed taking as much advantage of the situation as possible.
Besides, I found out some things about Marian living in the same house with her. Thankfully she didn't sing in the shower, because Marian can't sing. She was a great cook, considerate and amazingly easy to live with, except that she hated doing the dishes. Sometimes she would leave them until the next morning to wash. This was just not acceptable. You never knew when a friend might drop by, and I had a sterling reputation to maintain. I resigned myself to being the house dishwasher.
Then there were the things that had changed since she'd come back. She had suddenly taken up jogging in the morning, which was quite out of character. Believe me, Marian is NOT a morning person. And she actually cut her hair short and let it go gray. When I asked her about it in a perfectly tactful way, all she did was mumble something about honesty, and shoving it down someone's throat. I thought going gray was taking honesty too far. It was going to look like I was living with my mother, or that I was some kind of gigolo. I just didn't know what to make of it.
Anyway, when we were satisfied with our candidates, I helped Marian practice how to approach them - what to ask, how to get a feel for their personalities; and how much we should tell them. Marian chose people who could disappear for the few short months that we had left without arousing suspicion: professors who could take sabbaticals; researchers who could spend months in the field without contact. And she worked very hard to find people who were honest and straightforward, who loved their work for its own sake, and loved nature even more.
I only advised her, never telling her who to choose or who not to. I saw that she was really quite good at it, so I mostly watched, and waited to see Haldir again so I could say I told him so.
Of course, there was no way to really know about these people without talking to them in person, in their own element. So in late October we both quit our jobs, explaining to Ed that Marian's midlife crisis had recurred and that we had decided to take a break - relax, maybe travel.
Ed told us that if we could afford to quit, then he had definitely been paying us too much.
He gave the library project to Billie, who was quite happy about it. Tom, who had recently received his architecture license, got a promotion. Our exodus was a traditional excuse for an office party at Ed's expense, the bill for which he footed in surprisingly good humor. We all promised to keep in touch. I'm not sure, really, how sad they all were to see us go.
Marian admitted to me much later that she never really knew if she was doing this all for herself, for society at large, for me, for all of the elves, or whether she was doing it to prove to Haldir that she could. Maybe, she said, she was doing it for him alone, and she wondered if that was wrong.
I told her she was doing it for all of those reasons, and that any one of them would have served quite well enough. I do know, though, which reason she thought about the most.
30 October
It's been so nice to have a man in the house again. I wasn't sure
that such close quarters would work out well between us, but I'm
enjoying Jason's company immensely, and he's surprisingly comfortable
to live with. He even likes to do the dishes!
He brings a male energy to the place, and to those hours that I have
spent too much of alone. I love to come in from jogging in the
morning and hear him singing in the shower. He has such a lyrical
voice that listening to it makes me dance around the room, where he
can't see me. Yet there are times that I want to be alone, and he
gives me the space I need. I never feel overwhelmed by his presence.
The presence I long for more and more each day is Haldir's. I didn't
dream of him when we were together on the trail. The night after he
left me and Jason the dreams began again; momentary, vague images, not
like before. One night I dreamed that I walked around a corner in a
dim hallway and he was walking toward me, looking at me with those
serious, hypnotizing eyes. Then he turned his head as if distracted
by something, and disappeared in the dark. Last night I dreamed of
him strolling along a shaded path beneath the trees, immense golden
trees that reminded me of the mallorn in the cavern. He was walking
away from me with a blond elleth, but I couldn't see who it was. He
turned and looked at me over his shoulder as though he would speak.
Then the trees rustled and his image faded, wavering like the surface
of a pond in a gust of wind.
Tonight I sat by the fire with Jason, leafing idly through a worn and
fragile book of elvish poetry that was in his things when he moved in.
I tried to read some stanzas out loud and Jason corrected me. We
chatted comfortably about Lindir and Allinde and others in
Methentaurond. Disturbed about the dream I had last night, I slipped
in an innocent question or two about Vanimë. Why was it, I wondered,
that she was so unfriendly toward me?
You must not let Vanimë bother you, Jason smiled. She hovers over me,
and especially Haldir, more like an overprotective mother than like a
cousin. I'm sure she was quite critical of you. But she will accept
you eventually, once she learns to trust you.
Cousin? I asked Jason in confusion, barely hearing the rest of what
Jason said. But she practically lives with him, I said before I could
stop myself.
Of course, Jason said, that's perfectly natural. Elven families are
quite close - much closer than mortals. Well, not THAT close, he
clarified quickly. Marian, he exclaimed, looking at me carefully, did
you think that Haldir and Vanimë were, uh, involved romantically?
I tried not to react, but I felt my eyes grow wider and my cheeks
redden in spite of my efforts.
Oh Marian! Jason splurted and began laughing. I. . . I'm sorry,
but I. . . just can't help it! I could see that Jason was on his
way to developing a fit. He was doubling over in his efforts not to
laugh, which made him laugh even harder. My embarrassment deepened.
Haldir and Vanimë, he gasped between fits of laughter. Oh pen muin!
The thought. . . defies description! Ahhhhhhhh!
I don't know if its elves in general or just Jason, but once he starts
in laughing and can't stop, it can last until he's sick to his stomach
on the floor. I uncurled my legs from the sofa and got him a glass of
water, then stepped out onto the cold, rain-soaked deck to cool my
burning cheeks. When I came back in he was still laughing weakly,
though he looked like he was in pain, with tears running down his
cheeks. It served him right.
I''m going to bed Jason, I said and patted him not too gently on the
back, determined to leave him alone with his mirth. But I couldn't
help but smile. My heart swelled with the thought that Haldir wasn't
attached after all. But then why would he sometimes seem interested,
then push me away?
4 November
There is so much about the ages before Methentaurond and the way the
elves have lived in Allinde's library that we can't learn it all in a
few short months. We must be able to understand and interpret it
after they are gone. What we need most of all is a linguist, someone
who could learn the words and the heart of the elvish language
quickly. I believe we found the perfect person today.
Her name is Arianna, at 23 the youngest associate professor of
linguistics at Lajos Kossuth University in Debrecen, Hungary. Her
biography on the University website said that she was the daughter of
a Hungarian diplomat. As a young child she traveled extensively
wherever her father's position had taken him. Her parents noticed
that from a very early age Arianna had an astounding aptitude and
insatiable hunger for languages. She overcame her initial shyness and
collected words and phrases from each native person she met and
quietly charmed – the maids, the visiting dignitaries, the
shopkeepers, doctors, or groundskeepers - like other little girls
collected stuffed animals. Her parents quickly provided her with
language tutors and immersed her in each culture that she encountered.
Besides her native Hungarian, by the time she was eighteen she was
already fluent in, Russian, German, English, and Arabic. She also had
an equal interest and knowledge in the people that spoke these
languages. Upon entering the University, she began to study the
cultural origins of language itself.
Jason and I could have found many people internationally, and even
some Americans, with equal fluency. But it was the sixth language
Arianna spoke, and the research that had become her passion, that
sealed my interest in her.
Her current course offering was "Inspired by Nature: the Origins of
Japanese Language and Calligraphy." There was a web page describing
the class and the research behind it. Despite my dismal performance
even under Allinde's expert guidance, her ideas were much like my
humble impressions of Sindarin, Jason's native tongue. The Elvish
language is rich with imagery and descriptions derived from nature:
the passage of time is likened to a bird on the wing; movement is
communicated through the symbolism of the wind or the currents of a
river; new thoughts or new life through the rising of the sun or the
changing seasons. The Elvish language was as much poetic imagery as
it was language, revering and celebrating the beauty of the natural
world. Arianna described Japanese as developing in much the same way.
I thought she was extremely promising. When Jason and I arrived from
our plane flight to meet her late one afternoon in her cramped office
in the University language department, her shelves and desk
overflowing but orderly with books and manuscripts, her walls aglow
with prints of colorful Japanese woodcuts, we were sure.
Arianna was cheerful, beautiful (a definite plus with Jason), and
brilliant. Her infectious enthusiasm and energy, her absolute passion
for peoples and languages won me over in an instant. That, and what
we found in the language department's basement kitchenette.
It hadn't taken too much prodding to get Arianna to open up and
discuss her studies with us. Jason had inserted a few innocuous
personal questions that assured us of her freedom to take a break from
her work without arousing too much suspicion – she was single and
unattached, her parents had passed away, and her work involved
frequent travel.
I began carefully and in very general terms to explain to her why we
had come – that we had a research project to propose to her that would
break new ground and support her theories of language development, and
that we had brought something of interest to show her – when she
sprang up and announced, mostly to Jason, that she had been remiss as
a hostess in not offering us coffee first. She insisted that we
follow her into the department kitchenette so we could continue our
conversation.
I thought I recognized the purpose of the blue bin on the counter.
"Arianna, is that. . . a worm bed?" I asked her.
"Oh. Yes," she said, and I noticed that her Hungarian accent became
more pronounced when she became shy. "It's for the coffee grounds,
and lunch scraps. I take the compost home for my garden."
"This is your idea? My dear, this is wonderful!" Jason said, raising
the lid and making Arianna blush profusely. I sympathized with her
and tried not to grin – Jason had that effect on women, especially
young ones.
"Well," she continued when she saw our enthusiasm, "at first the
others laughed rudely at me for bringing it in, but now we all feed
them. Even old professor Tempkin now calls them our department pets,"
she said proudly.
"But now," she clapped her hands eagerly, "what do you have to show
me?" and led us back to her office fortified with steaming cups of
thick Hungarian coffee.
"First," I cautioned, "you must promise that what is said here will go
no further than this room, at least not for several months. This
project is very sensitive. As a researcher I know that you can
appreciate the damage that can be done, both to the research itself
and to the object of that research, if it is exposed prematurely.
What irreplaceable knowledge can be lost forever with a careless word
or a dropped note."
"Of course, of course I understand," Arianna said carefully but with
clear enthusiasm.
"You would have to take a sabbatical, say beginning next month or so –
give some excuse that would be plausible to your colleagues without
revealing the exact nature of your work. We would of course reimburse
you for the wages that you would have earned here during this time,
and pay you for your work with us as well. But even if you decide not
to accept our proposal, we would ask that you promise not speak of it
to anyone."
"Yes, I promise," she said decisively. What have you to show me?
Please explain."
I looked at Jason. There would be no going back from here. He nodded
his head almost imperceptibly.
"I think you might want to sit down," I advised Arianna. I took a
deep breath and carefully pulled Jason's elvish book out of my purse.
I gently opened it and spread it and my language notes on Arianna's
crowded desk.
She drew the book reverently toward her, and her eyes grew to twice
their normal size.
"Arianna, what if I told you that there is an ancient culture hidden
in the wilds. . . "I began, and we talked through the fading
afternoon light and long into the evening.
9 November
We also need a doctor, not only to learn what the elves can teach us,
but for our own group's health and safety. I have no unrealistic
expectations that Lomion or Haldir will be able to teach their
seemingly magical healing powers to us, but there is much to be
learned in herbal medicine. I thought instantly of Joel Martin.
Joel had been a brilliant pre-med student while I had been an
architectural undergraduate, but somehow we had found ourselves both
in the same Rural Society class. I was there to learn about rural
settlement patterns; Joel to find the science behind old wives tales
and herbal remedies at a time when the medical establishment scoffed
at such silliness. He was hell-bent on proving them wrong. I don't
think either one of us got what we came for, but we did get to know
each other.
Joel had been darkly handsome, intense, and passionate about leading
medicine in a more wholistic direction long before the term "wellness"
was coined. I had lost track of him when he had left Berkeley to
pursue his doctorate studying herbal medicine in the rural mountains
of Appalachia.
I found him through the alumni directory, not so very far away at the
University of San Francisco Medical Center. He was now a practicing
physician and medical researcher. I wanted to know if he was still as
dedicated to his dream as he had been in college.
Jason and I had a hard time making an appointment with him. We
finally caught up with him as he jogged up to his house in the upper-
scale neighborhood of North Beach. Luckily he remembered me. He
invited us into his roomy, designer-furnished home office. It offered
an unobstructed view of the beach and a wall thick with certificates
and photos and folk art antiques. Dr. Joel had done quite well for
himself.
Missing were the obligatory family pictures; no portrait of wife or
kids on the desk. It didn't surprise me. Joel was in excellent
physical condition, graying yet still magnetically handsome. But his
schedule was obviously stressful and demanding, and the way he showed
us into his study told me that he had retained a healthy dose of
egotism. Perhaps this was why, for all his professional success, he
had apparently not found it advantageous to maintain his marriage,
even in light of his Catholic upbringing.
I turned our visit from personal reminiscences to appreciative
questions about Joel's research at the medical center. Joel was more
than happy to impress us with his accomplishments. It quickly became
apparent that he had drifted away from his love of herbal medicine
into more heavily funded research, until what had begun as temporary
spurts of needed income had become his entire focus. He spoke
wistfully of his years in Appalachia – how idealistic he had been
then; what fascinating things he had seen and learned, how he wished
he had persevered through the hard, lean times when there was no
backing to be found. But, he said as if trying to convince himself,
what he did here was valuable, too, and very rewarding.
You sold out, Joel, I accused him harshly. You let a lifestyle you
could brag about, your need to be patted on the back, control you
instead of the other way around. You let the big wheels with the big
grants and the even bigger strings attached tell you to study what
they wanted you to study. Did they tell you what results they wanted
you to find, too?
I knew I wasn't being fair to attack Joel's integrity, but I wanted
him to get angry. I wanted to see the passion that I thought might
still be there.
I can't believe you just said that to me, he stood up and spat in
indignation. I invited you into my home, you and a total stranger, he
waved at Jason. For what? So you could attack me? You've worn out
your welcome, Marian. I think you both need to leave right now!
Jason and I got up and allowed ourselves to be firmly led down the
paneled hallway toward the door.
You can protest all you want, DOCTOR, I jabbed as we reached the door,
but you know I'm right.
Get out of my house, Joel said, still incensed, but the tone of his
voice told me that I had hit a sensitive area.
I can offer you a fresh beginning Joel, a second chance to follow the
dreams I know you still have, I pressed as he opened the door.
I opened my garden notebook for the first time to a pressed plant of a
kind that Gladrel had prepared infusions of for Lomion several times;
a plant that I hoped Joel would recognize – or rather, not recognize-
as one he had never seen before.
He stopped in the middle of his attempt to shove us out the door,
blinked hard, and reached for my notebook. I slammed it shut.
Think of the things you could learn, Joel, the new medicines you could
bring back and teach your students to use. Who knows what diseases
this plant, or others like it, could cure? Here's my card, I said,
writing my cell phone number on the back and shoving it into his
pocket. I'll give you a week to call me, no more. Cell phones only.
One week, Joel, and I'll tell you all about it. Come with me for a
couple of months, and I'll show you.
He closed the door soundly behind us.
I went too far. I blew it, I said to Jason as we stepped down the
hill in front of Joel's house. And you didn't exactly help. You
didn't even open your mouth. I thought you were here to help me?
You were on a roll, Marian, why interrupt? Jason said with a grin.
I shook my head and got in the passenger side of the car when Jason
held the door open for me. What I said wasn't fair. It wasn't true,
I told Jason guiltily.
He's comfortable and secure, dear one, but he knows there's something
missing, Jason told me. His soul is sleeping. It wants to wake up
again.
He'll call, Jason said.
I drove back from San Francisco. Marian was too preoccupied. She craned her neck every time she pointed to an interesting building. She did the same whenever she saw a bright red car or a tall man with long blond hair pass by on the crowded streets. To be anywhere near a car with architects in it driving through San Francisco is dangerous, but this was worse. She surely would have run someone down. I negotiated the maze of traffic and let her wear herself out without endangering the public or, more importantly, me.
I knew that it wouldn't be right for me to talk to Marian about her feelings for Haldir; not until she decided to tell me about them. That is why even though I wanted to I didn't tell her that I could see her looking, and that I knew he would have already left.
Finally we crossed the Bay Bridge and out of The City proper (only San Francisco would call itself "The City", as if no other place on earth could be comparable enough to call itself one). By the time we left most of the traffic behind us and were cruising through the warmer, windy hills east of the bay, she was dozing.
10 November
Maybe it was being in San Francisco. Or perhaps it is because I can't
stop wanting Haldir, can't keep myself from hoping that even though he
has no choice but to leave, he might let me into his heart when I see
him again, just for a little while. I think of the huckleberries and
how he held me at night, and I can't help but hope he has some small
feelings for me. All I know is that the dream I had last night was
the most vivid, most intensely sexual dream I have ever experienced .
As soon as I awoke I could feel that he was coming. I hurriedly
buckled my last layer of faded and somewhat frayed robes as I heard
his steps approaching the door. I checked the last of the laces to
ensure that they were firmly tied. The faint squeak of the door
bolt, rarely used and thus significant, sounded through the heavy
curtains. I wouldn't have heard him coming inside if he hadn't
wanted to alert me to his arrival.
My palms had become damp with the hurried preparations that I
had only wakened and decided on a few minutes ago. The sitting
room beyond the curtains was now still, and I knew he stood
somewhere silently, waiting for me. Or was he even now silently
stalking me?
Taking a slow breath to calm myself, I wiped my hands on the
front of my skirts and slowly drew the heavy bedroom curtains
aside, stepping purposefully into the room to confront him. Where
was he?
I looked around swiftly. I wouldn't be able to discern his
location unless he moved, and he knew it. He would avoid the pale,
horizontal light of first dawn falling tentative and hazy on the
far wall and throwing the rest of the room into a warm chiaroscuro
of dim grays and darker, shadowy corners. Yet I felt his presence
strongly – he was here. Waiting.
My pulse quickening in the base of my throat, I advanced one,
two silent steps into the room. Then I froze like a timid rabbit
that knows the hungry fox is near. Sensing rather than seeing or
hearing the furtive movement, too late I spun around. How had he
so easily moved behind me, and when?
I wondered fleetingly if anyone was near enough to hear should I
scream. Before I could finish turning, before I could draw breath
enough to call out, he was upon me.
A demanding mouth claimed my own with no prelude, no request for
permission. Iron-muscled arms crushed me against a tall
uncompromising frame. I clutched at his travel-worn and dusty
garments, twisting ineffectively in his firm grasp. I felt the
vibration of laughter on his firm, possessive lips. Could I have
released my own lips from his to cry out, I knew that this time it
would not dissuade him from the demands of his physical need.
So when at last he loosened his hold on me and allowed me but a
few inches of precious freedom, one arm still firmly holding me
against him, I did not waste my breath to speak, but only to gasp
for air.
"Endlessly have I savored the thought of this moment these long,
lonely weeks," he said in a low voice rough with both desire and
victory.
"No one is near," he added meaningfully as he evaluated and
dismissed each lace and grommet of my robe's bodice for the minor
challenge they would present.
I had known from the moment I had awakened that my hurried
preparations would be futile against his strong and nimble hands.
But then, I'd had other reasons for dressing as I had. So I looked
him directly in his dark, bottomless eyes, feigning bravery as he
backed me into the growing shaft of sunlight. I caught my breath
as it set his shining and unfettered hair into a blaze of golden
fire tinted red and orange by the sun. So, he had taken the time
to bathe before he sought to track me down.
He reached up with his free hand to twirl the lace on my bodice
slowly around his index finger. He began to pull the bow loose,
cockily awaiting my reaction. Waiting for any chance to break
loose from him, I steadied my gaze and my mind so as not to reveal
my inner thoughts.
The set of his mouth betraying slight irritation, he yanked the
bow the rest of the way, unexpectedly finding that the knot held
fast. My lip curled involuntarily, signaling my minor victory.
His eyes sparkled darkly in response, daring me to try to escape as
he released my waist to free the double knot.
Though we were somewhat closer to the locked door now, I knew
this was not the time to try to run – not yet.
Quickly he grasped me by the arms again and slid my gown down
off of my shoulders. It fell into folds on the floor and I kicked
it free, not wanting to trip over it should I have a small
opportunity to flee.
With the searing gaze that I had never quite become accustomed
to, he studied his next challenge – another layer of clothing that
I wore under the discarded gown, but not the last. He began to
realize that he was still far from his goal. Murmurs of desire and
intrigued annoyance floated at the corners of my mind, but he would
not yet allow me full knowledge of his thoughts.
"It is not wise to toy with me so early in the morning, melamin,
and especially not in my current. . . condition," he warned me,
and a fleeting but strong wave of lust rippled across my own
thoughts, tugging at them playfully.
I looked down at his breeches and saw clearly the condition to
which he was referring. I looked up and gave him a taunting smile.
I was sure that he could sense that in fact, my condition by this
time was not so different from his own.
Stepping back slightly, he dropped his own belt and loosened his
tunic, his eyes momentarily losing sight of me as he pulled it and
his undertunic over his head all at once.
Willing myself with utmost difficulty not to tarry in admiration
of his bare flexing chest and arms, I saw my chance and made a
break for the door.
I got almost halfway, shrieking as I barely eluded his grasp by
twisting to the side and planting the sofa firmly between us.
I knew he could have caught me easily and that the sofa offered
me no protection. The predatorial look he fixed me with as he
began to move smoothly to the side, and the rise and fall of his
chest as he began to breath harder, told me that I had set his
primal masculine instincts into full pitch.
Haldir was equally as formidable a lover in bed as he was a
fierce warrior in battle. I was rarely a match for his unbridled
ardor. I knew he often held back from the edge when we made love.
I wondered if this time I had started something, the consequences
of which I wouldn't be able to handle. Even though I knew he would
never hurt me, I felt a twinge of apprehension.
He smiled cockily again, and I knew he had felt my inner
hesitation in his own mind. "It is much, much too late to stop the
game that you yourself began, my sweet prize. I trust," he purred,
and I felt his voice become almost a physical caress on my body,
"That you are not overly fond of the clothing you have so uselessly
tied. . . and buckled. . . and wrapped so tightly around
yourself." He punctuated each word with another step around the
sofa, which I matched with my own, keeping it firmly between us.
On the contrary, I replied shakily, trying to keep my voice from
rising to an alto-soprano, these garments are each very dear to me
in their own way.
His eyebrows cocked wickedly, and I knew I had given myself
away. He had only guessed up until now at the many of layers I had
applied to myself, making sure each was thin enough that the total
effect was not obviously bulky.
"The garments are old, and worn," he countered, continuing to
slowly stalk me. "You would be much more appealing were I to
relieve you of them!" With that he feigned right and I bolted for
the door, only to see him leap easily over the sofa and corner me,
clasping me tightly against his hips. What easy prey I was! I
scolded myself as I gasped for breath.
They are of great sentimental value, I found myself chattering
as he raptly watched my chest heave against my clothing with each
indrawn breath. I would be heartbroken, I said, were you to damage
them in any way.
As any cornered animal might do, I sprang forward and tried to
knock him off balance, only to have him twist me off my feet and
position himself firmly on top of me on the floor.
"You lie very badly," he whispered hotly into my ear and
straddled my hips. Without warning he ripped the next garment from
my waist, revealing another, thinner gown beneath. He was getting
closer. Seeing that it was also laced tightly across my breasts,
he smiled and wrapped my hair around one hand. Reaching down with
the other, he unbuckled the fabric belt, kissing my lips feverishly
and then lowering his head to pull the laces with his teeth. Now
he allowed his craving for me wash through my mind, feeding my own
desire for him and making me heady and weak. I grasped his thick,
long hair in my hands, not sure if I wanted to fight him or help
him, carried away by his long-awaited passion and my own breathless
state of anticipation.
Pulling the laces he again found them double-knotted. Growling
in impatience he let go of my hair and ripped the fabric from my
chest to my waist, every layer at once, and feasted on the sight of
my bare breasts. He gave a gutteral cry of conquest and lowered
his head, attending to them until I was arching up to him, begging
him to go lower, hardly able to endure waiting.
Reaching one hand lower to rip the garments down my hips while
he continued to mercilessly and deliciously tease me, his hand
stopped cold and he raised back away from my chest in wide-eyed
disbelief, his thoughts unguarded and clear in my mind. I smiled.
"Leggings?!?!" he shouted loudly, his voice cracking in ultimate
frustration. It was a wonder that the whole city didn't hear him.
His lips drawn closed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring, he
heaved himself back and in one movement tore the threadbare
leggings and the rest of my dresses down over my legs and off my
feet, and threw them across the room. Towering over me, his chest
heaving with pent-up passion, the outline of his form aglow with
the sunlight growing stronger behind him, I marveled as always that
this elf had bonded himself to me and me alone.
I looked up at him, biting my lip in amusement. You're still
dressed, I commented, looking pointedly at the laces of his own
leggings.
Staring down at me with steely eyes flashing, he knelt in front
of me. I reached out and ever so slowly pulled his laces free.
Growling impatiently, he pulled them down. Not bothering to remove
them further than his thighs, h e pushed forward and pinned my hips
to the floor firmly but not uncomfortably, and held me there.
"You are mine," he stated in the deepest of velvety tones as his
body locked heavily, possessively with mine. My hips rose
automatically to meet his movements, and he pushed my hips down
against the floor again. I wriggled beneath him, desperate for him
to continue, to sweep me away with the fiery sensations that his
attentions had caused me.
"Say you are mine," he demanded huskily both out loud and in my
mind, and held my eyes locked to his own, not moving, not allowing
me to make him move. Breathing heavily, he smiled cheekily again
at my helpless and needy condition. Slowly, tortuously, he moved
away from me once more, poising himself barely above me. I
strained needfully to touch him once more, but he matched my
efforts move for move, staying just the smallest bit away. He knew
he was driving me wild.
Finally, suddenly, he thrust against me again. "Say you are
mine," he demanded again, breathing hard and shakily through
clenched teeth. He gasped when a long moan escaped my lips. I was
shuddering with my need for him, near the end of my ability to
think clearly. Every thought, every sensation was now centered on
him. Yet I knew from his shuddering breaths that he also could not
control himself much longer.
As usual, when I am completely helpless I become the most
idiotically defiant. I glared up at him. YOU are MINE, I answered
him. I felt his chest and stomach shake with mirth and raw passion
combined. He raised back and grasped me close, at last allowing
himself to make love to me in earnest.
It is good to be home, amrún nín, he grinned as I whispered his
name and cried out with pleasure and the strong, warm sun poured
into the room.
If I continue on dreaming this way, I don't know how I'll manage to
stay sane. I count each hour, each minute until I'm near him again:
15 November
If I didn't know that we were in southern Chile I would think that we
were in northern California, except that there aren't as many roads,
or people. Substitute forests of monkey puzzle trees for redwoods,
and it's like someone took the entire sweep of the California
coastline from sunny Newport Beach to the rainy Oregon border and
turned it upside down over the Equator.
We were looking for Roger Martinez's bank near the northern border of
the Malleco National Reserve, but the transplanted Oregon native we
were looking for was "in the field" at the invitation of the Chilean
park service, so we followed him into the interior with one of the
rangers who would pick him up by helicopter.
We spotted him collecting seeds at the base of one of the ancient pine
trees and he waved a wide-brimmed straw hat at us as we passed
overhead to find a place to land.
Martinez nodded at the ranger as we approached through the underbrush
and held out a handful of seeds. You know, he lectured to no one in
particular as he overturned and examined each one, these trees don't
produce seeds until they're almost 200 years old. Then when they do,
these buggers sprout almost all year long. Don't keep well, though,
even in cold storage, he added absently. They've got a mind to grow.
So who the hell are you and why are you bothering me? he yelled
gruffly, glaring at Jason at last. The intimidating effect the old
man was hoping for was ruined, however, when at the same time he
removed his straw hat, nodded at me, and acknowledged my presence with
a polite "Señorita." Marian, I said. His attention went straight
back to Jason. Jason introduced himself and Martinez shook his hand
with an iron grip. It was obvious who sr. Martinez figured was in
charge.
He's hard of hearing, un poco, Ranger Palacios held his thumb and
index finger up close together to demonstrate, and headed back to the
helicopter to wait.
I am not, Martinez grumbled a little less loudly and cast the receding
ranger a fond if irritated look with sharp, clear eyes that belied his
76 years. Roger Martinez was old but he was deeply tanned, wiry and
spry, riding in bicycle marathons in his spare time. Jason and I had
no doubt that he would make it to Methentaurond with no trouble, if we
could convince him to go with us. I was right in assuming that when
he saw what was in my plant notebook, it would be easy. Once he had
felt that he had protested enough, that is.
He'd gone to the University, studied horticulture and crop genetics.
He found out he could get anything to grow that he wanted to, so he
became a Master Gardener too. He'd dropped out of school once he
became disgusted with commercial agriculture's focus on engineering
their crops for mass harvesting and nothing else. Why a tomato didn't
even taste like a tomato anymore!
He soon became alarmed at the loss of plant varieties. The big farms
used three, maybe four types of tomatos; the rest were disappearing
even from grandma's garden. If the few varieties the farms used got
some disease they couldn't resist; if the crops were decimated, then
where would we all be? Up the proverbial creek without a paddle,
that's where! he yelled for emphasis.
Variety isn't just the spice of life, young sr. Jason, he said,
pointing at Jason's chest for emphasis, it's what will save us as a
species. That's why he started the seed bank, down here where people
minded their own business.
He'd gathered seeds for every kind of plant he could find, from every
heirloom garden and park and mountain and swamp. Somebody had to do
it, so why not him? He now sold organic seeds by mail order. People
sent him new varieties from all over the world. His seed bank was the
biggest one in the Western Hemisphere. He had over twenty gardeners
working for him; some of them actually knew what they were doing
because they listened to him when he told them what to do, and why.
Few really understood: You didn't just stick a seed in the dirt and
water it. You had to talk to it, listen to what it needed.
I nodded in agreement. Gladrel was going to love Roger Martinez.
Someday, Martinez continued lecturing us, some young man would find a
cure for cancer - a compound in a rare, disappearing plant that would
have that special something that none of the others like it would have
- and they would come to him to get it. Even now he had a scientist
from some University in Brazil snooping around his gardens with his
microscopes and his computers.
Once he came down to Chile where his parents had been born, he told
us, he loved it so much that he swore he would never go back to the
States. You couldn't even blow your nose there without somebody
telling you how to do it. Too many lawyers. Not enough common sense.
What made us think that we could talk him into going back?
Jason said in his best endearing voice, ¿Pero tiene una familia en
Oregon, no?
Sure I do, he barked, a son who'd done well for himself, had a pretty
daughter-in-law and a fine grandson. But what did that have to do
with anything? They visited him down here every year.
Seeds, I said.
¿Qué? What? sr. Martinez squinted at me.
Seeds! I said a little louder.
Well you don't have to yell you know, he grumbled and shook his head.
What kind of seeds? he then asked with a keen eye. I had finally
gotten his attention.
Well, I don't know, sr. Martinez, I replied and opened my gardening
notebook and plant press on the ground below the monkey puzzle tree.
I thought maybe you could tell me.
I've. . . I've never seen anything like these, he said, running a
finger gently but excitedly across the soft, fuzzy surface of a
pressed leaf. Where did you find these?
I looked at Jason and he nodded.
We'll take you there, Jason told him. But don't tell señor Palacios
or anyone else about this.
Young man! Martinez said in exasperation, glancing at the ranger in
the helicopter. I may be old but I'm not daft . And my name's Roger,
so use it.
Sr. Martinez - Roger - flew back with us in the helicopter. He was
done for the day and wanted to get back to his gardens to see if
anyone had screwed things up while he was gone.
Got a young one there, do you? he elbowed me in the arm and cocked his
head at Jason as we flew over the forest toward the coast.
Jason threw back his head and laughed. He had been teasing me
mercilessly since I had cut back my hair and started to let it go gray
again. I was doing so because of what Haldir had said to me, but I
wasn't about to admit that to Jason.
Now you know who's really in charge, Roger, Jason said.
¿Es verdad? Martinez asked Jason and looked from him to me with
newfound interest.
Quite true, Jason grinned at me.
Fine, I knew when I was being ganged up on. I folded my arms in front
of me and ignored them both by looking out the window.
Well, will wonders never cease, said Roger.
I am looking forward to showing him how true his words really are.
By the middle of December Marian and I had contacted nine people who we wanted to join us. Joel had called us back, as I had predicted. Marian's only serious disappointment was that her friend Matt, a lawyer, would not be coming. Matt had gained an international reputation championing environmental causes. He and Marian had argued constantly about the methods, if not the end results. Take the spotted owl for example, the little brown predator that was the successful if controversial poster-child for hundreds of acres of old-growth redwoods being removed from logging. Endangered nesting areas my eye, Marian would say, spotted owls nest behind Safeway signs for crying out loud. It's nothing but bullshit propaganda. Exactly, Matt would retort, those without the power and money had to use whatever methods they could to get the results they wanted. The ends don't justify the means, Marian would tell him. There's nothing lower than lying to get what you want. Oh Marian, Matt would reply, don't be naive. One side exaggerates one way, the other side has to exaggerate the opposite direction, or nothing will ever happen. And on. . . and on. . . I got the distinct impression that the ever-present promise of a good-natured detailed argument was the main basis for their long friendship.
Unfortunately Matt the workaholic bachelor had just gotten married and was not in the frame of mind to spend months on end away from his new wife. He was too nervous about blowing it. We had only started a long-distance phone conversation to Atlanta, Georgia with him when I signaled Marian to cut it short before we gave him too much information. To say that she was disappointed was a vast understatement.
Matt is the most intelligent person I've ever met, Marian complained to me when I told her - I mean strongly advised her - not to ask him to come. His heart is in the right place. He knows how to convince people. He's persistent. He knows how to write resolutions and debate issues and. . . and all of that lawyer stuff we need to protect Methentaurond. He would have been perfect. Perfect. . .
Matt was the only person we contacted for whom Marian's heart masked her better judgement. She finally said she agreed with me, but in spite of her words I could tell she hadn't quite let the idea go.
That left us with eight: Arianna, Joel, Roger, Dieter, a security expert, Yasmin, a cultural anthropologist, Martha, an art historian, Tommy Woo, a botanist who was, as luck would have it, a musician as well, and Mason Wells, an ecologist. Marian also wanted a structural engineer, but I told her that the engineer could come later. Being an architect, she could cover engineering interests herself for the time being. And we needed to keep the size of our group small, for manageability and to keep a low profile.
We would leave in early January, barely within the four month deadline that Haldir had rightly insisted upon. It would give everyone the holidays to make their arrangements and allow Marian to visit with her daughters before we left. She had decided not to tell them what we were up to until she could announce it to everyone. Her oldest, she said, wouldn't believe her anyway, and her youngest would believe her at once but couldn't keep a secret.
Bruno, of course, would come with us. After his first trip with her, Marian said, it just wouldn't be fair to leave him behind.
We decided that we would pose as a religious group going on a retreat in case questions were asked. Yasmin, the anthropologist, objected to this on the grounds that she was an athiest and a scientist, not a Baptist, but Marian quickly convinced her that the choice was the most logical one. Why else, she posed to Yasmin, would people believe that anyone would go backpacking in January unless it was a devout religious group heading into the wilderness? Outwardly Yasmin said that she was coming mainly so that she could prove us wrong about just about everything we told her. But Marian knew as well as I that she was posturing. Marian added that the strongest supporters of a cause were the converts. She had a good point.
In deference to the less experienced hikers, we gave everyone a list of what to bring with them, as well as what was absolutely, strictly forbidden, namely electronic devices of any type. A massive groan escaped each person at this horrible announcement, especially the young ones who had grown up literally attached to their computers. Marian was adamant. Electronic devices could give away our location. The scientists among the group responded more to Marian's statement that a good researcher did as little as possible to change the object being studied. No one used computers or other electronics where we were going; there was no electricity at all. None would be allowed.
We arranged by cell phone to meet together in the meeting room above the bar in the old stone gold-rush era Soda Works building in downtown. We would meet at night, January 8, which was the night of the antique car show and auction on Main Street, an annual event that would draw hundreds of people. As I remembered from experience long past, the old Soda Works had a convenient back door that led directly from the second floor to a narrow tree-shaded alley on the hill behind the Main Street businesses. Hopefully this would give us the cover we needed to leave unnoticed.
We would soon discover that my warnings of discovery were not unfounded.
Song from the broadway play "". Pen muin: Dear one. Amrún nín: My sunrise.
THE TALE OF MARIAN
CHAPTER 22 – I see the same stars through my window that you see through yours but we're worlds apart, worlds apart.
27 September
I have never known Jason to speak so seriously. We have made up quite
nicely, and our friendship is even deeper for it. I have been wrong
to think that I could never see him as the same person again. He is
still genuinely Jason, through and through. A tremendous burden has
been lifted from my mind, and I walk with a lighter step. With Jason
by my side, the challenges that lie before me no longer seem
insurmountable.
I brought him home and fed him tonight. It was the least I could do,
as he had stocked my refrigerator and he looked like he was starving.
In the safety of my house, he took off his prosthetic ears - his own
were quite beautiful - and did whatever it was he did to regain that
elven glow that everyone in Methentaurond has in one degree or
another. It was the fea - the Light of the soul - he said. Those who
had seen Valinor with their own eyes were the brightest of all. He
told me with reverence how Galadriel had appeared, and an elf lord
called Glorfindel. Having the privilege of seeing Jason as he truly
was took my breath away - as all of the elves did.
I finally showed him my list. He agreed with Haldir and Lindir that
the experts I said I needed were appropriate. The trick would be to
find people who were passionate about their professions and what they
could offer to society, and would be inspired to come with us and not
give us away (or have us shut away!). These people would believe in
the magic of the human spirit and its ability to transcend the norm -
who could believe, no insist, that we all could make our world better
if we tried. They also had to be people who would live and work well
together.
And I was the one who would have to convince them. What would I say?
"What if I told you that there is an ancient culture hidden in the
wilds. A culture that knows of us without us knowing of them, that
has lived secluded from us by choice, and by necessity.
Its people live as part of the earth, not in domination over it.
They believe the higher good is to preserve beauty. They value
faith, valor, truth, and stewardship of nature above possessions,
dominance and power.
They grieve for our careless waste of the gift we have been given.
We have made a good start. We have banned our most harmful
chemicals, reduced our acid rain. We have begun to build healthier
buildings, replace lost wetlands, and to find other, better types
of transportation.
But we are over-fishing our oceans, destroying our coral reefs. We
are paving over our crop fields and building mega-dams that destroy
the life of our rivers. We continue to create nuclear wastes that
we cannot completely contain.
This culture - these people - are strong. Their society has
existed for millennia, but now they are dying because we have made
the earth sick. In spite of our planet's resiliency, soon it will
not be able to heal itself, at least not in a way that we can
thrive on it and not sicken and die ourselves.
It is too late for them. They are the indicators, the sign that we
too will soon follow them if we do not act now.
What if I told you that this culture believes that we are its
legacy; its final calling. They believe that, before they die,
they must teach us how to heal the earth. They will give us hope,
and the means to succeed. By learning their ways we could learn
once again to respect the earth - to save ourselves. If only we
would come to them, learn from them, and then, when they are gone,
to teach the world what we have learned.
Would you believe me? Or would you dismiss me as a far left-wing
socialist, wacko environmentalist who has finally gone truly and
irrevocably mad?
What if I told you that I am none of those things? I have simply
come to know these people. I have seen their home. I know that
what they can offer us will never come again, and that if we do not
embrace this treasure now, it will disappear forever with them.
Would you come?
And if you came, if you entered this sanctuary, would you keep it a
secret while you learned, a treasure that you would guard from all
harm? Would you join me to preserve and protect their home from
the greedy and the power-hungry, from those who would squander it
for their own purposes and then carelessly destroy it after?
And when we were ready, would you help me give it to the world?"
To trust strangers with such a calling is a desperate long shot, I
know. But it is our only hope. Jason reminds me that I was once a
stranger, too.
It will, as Jason has warned me, be a difficult and risky business.
We will have to think like fugitives, he says. We can trust no one
but each other, if we are to avoid being discovered too soon, avoid
having Methentaurond taken from us, ruined.
His words scare me, because they are wise and true. Not that I wasn't
already scared.
I tell him I don't know how to think like a fugitive. Not
surprisingly, he tells me that he does. I warn him there is always
one traitor in any group, like Judas, who will choose money or fame
over the ideal.
He tells me that it can't be helped; we will simply have to find
people with the right motivation.
Simply?
Besides, he tells me with the charming and casual assurance that only
Jason can muster, we are not destined to fail, with a traitor as the
instrument: We are destined to succeed!
So we will use all of the technology at our disposal, but only to find
potential people to contact. We will meet the people we choose in
person; verbal communication only. We will show them my notebooks, my
pressed plants, Jason's ring, but we will not allow a scrap to be
borrowed or taken out of our sight. There will be no records, nothing
to give us away. We will go underground.
Jason quotes Charles Manson with a crooked grin, something like:
"Extreme paranoia is only extreme awareness."
I wish he would use a more appropriate example.
Marian and I spent long days in the office and long hours each night at her house searching, finding, discarding and refining our list of people to approach about Methentaurond. Finally one morning about 2 am, Marian asked me to move in with her. We were together so much, she explained, it seemed like the sensible thing to do.
Marian is so darned sensible.
She worried aloud to me that living with her would cramp my love life, but I waved her off. Did she think I had no control at all? True, the ladies were bereft at my recent inattention to their needs. I was sure, I teased her, that once they heard I had moved in with her, they would cry themselves to sleep for weeks. But they would move on. And they would always have the memories.
When we told Ed, all he said was "It's about time."
So everyone thought we were finally sleeping together. We did nothing to correct their assumptions. Their assumptions would make it that much easier to leave together when the time came. And of course, as Marian disgustedly accused me after I had pinched her several times in front of Billie and most of the rest of the office (although she quite wrongly said fondled), I quite enjoyed taking as much advantage of the situation as possible.
Besides, I found out some things about Marian living in the same house with her. Thankfully she didn't sing in the shower, because Marian can't sing. She was a great cook, considerate and amazingly easy to live with, except that she hated doing the dishes. Sometimes she would leave them until the next morning to wash. This was just not acceptable. You never knew when a friend might drop by, and I had a sterling reputation to maintain. I resigned myself to being the house dishwasher.
Then there were the things that had changed since she'd come back. She had suddenly taken up jogging in the morning, which was quite out of character. Believe me, Marian is NOT a morning person. And she actually cut her hair short and let it go gray. When I asked her about it in a perfectly tactful way, all she did was mumble something about honesty, and shoving it down someone's throat. I thought going gray was taking honesty too far. It was going to look like I was living with my mother, or that I was some kind of gigolo. I just didn't know what to make of it.
Anyway, when we were satisfied with our candidates, I helped Marian practice how to approach them - what to ask, how to get a feel for their personalities; and how much we should tell them. Marian chose people who could disappear for the few short months that we had left without arousing suspicion: professors who could take sabbaticals; researchers who could spend months in the field without contact. And she worked very hard to find people who were honest and straightforward, who loved their work for its own sake, and loved nature even more.
I only advised her, never telling her who to choose or who not to. I saw that she was really quite good at it, so I mostly watched, and waited to see Haldir again so I could say I told him so.
Of course, there was no way to really know about these people without talking to them in person, in their own element. So in late October we both quit our jobs, explaining to Ed that Marian's midlife crisis had recurred and that we had decided to take a break - relax, maybe travel.
Ed told us that if we could afford to quit, then he had definitely been paying us too much.
He gave the library project to Billie, who was quite happy about it. Tom, who had recently received his architecture license, got a promotion. Our exodus was a traditional excuse for an office party at Ed's expense, the bill for which he footed in surprisingly good humor. We all promised to keep in touch. I'm not sure, really, how sad they all were to see us go.
Marian admitted to me much later that she never really knew if she was doing this all for herself, for society at large, for me, for all of the elves, or whether she was doing it to prove to Haldir that she could. Maybe, she said, she was doing it for him alone, and she wondered if that was wrong.
I told her she was doing it for all of those reasons, and that any one of them would have served quite well enough. I do know, though, which reason she thought about the most.
30 October
It's been so nice to have a man in the house again. I wasn't sure
that such close quarters would work out well between us, but I'm
enjoying Jason's company immensely, and he's surprisingly comfortable
to live with. He even likes to do the dishes!
He brings a male energy to the place, and to those hours that I have
spent too much of alone. I love to come in from jogging in the
morning and hear him singing in the shower. He has such a lyrical
voice that listening to it makes me dance around the room, where he
can't see me. Yet there are times that I want to be alone, and he
gives me the space I need. I never feel overwhelmed by his presence.
The presence I long for more and more each day is Haldir's. I didn't
dream of him when we were together on the trail. The night after he
left me and Jason the dreams began again; momentary, vague images, not
like before. One night I dreamed that I walked around a corner in a
dim hallway and he was walking toward me, looking at me with those
serious, hypnotizing eyes. Then he turned his head as if distracted
by something, and disappeared in the dark. Last night I dreamed of
him strolling along a shaded path beneath the trees, immense golden
trees that reminded me of the mallorn in the cavern. He was walking
away from me with a blond elleth, but I couldn't see who it was. He
turned and looked at me over his shoulder as though he would speak.
Then the trees rustled and his image faded, wavering like the surface
of a pond in a gust of wind.
Tonight I sat by the fire with Jason, leafing idly through a worn and
fragile book of elvish poetry that was in his things when he moved in.
I tried to read some stanzas out loud and Jason corrected me. We
chatted comfortably about Lindir and Allinde and others in
Methentaurond. Disturbed about the dream I had last night, I slipped
in an innocent question or two about Vanimë. Why was it, I wondered,
that she was so unfriendly toward me?
You must not let Vanimë bother you, Jason smiled. She hovers over me,
and especially Haldir, more like an overprotective mother than like a
cousin. I'm sure she was quite critical of you. But she will accept
you eventually, once she learns to trust you.
Cousin? I asked Jason in confusion, barely hearing the rest of what
Jason said. But she practically lives with him, I said before I could
stop myself.
Of course, Jason said, that's perfectly natural. Elven families are
quite close - much closer than mortals. Well, not THAT close, he
clarified quickly. Marian, he exclaimed, looking at me carefully, did
you think that Haldir and Vanimë were, uh, involved romantically?
I tried not to react, but I felt my eyes grow wider and my cheeks
redden in spite of my efforts.
Oh Marian! Jason splurted and began laughing. I. . . I'm sorry,
but I. . . just can't help it! I could see that Jason was on his
way to developing a fit. He was doubling over in his efforts not to
laugh, which made him laugh even harder. My embarrassment deepened.
Haldir and Vanimë, he gasped between fits of laughter. Oh pen muin!
The thought. . . defies description! Ahhhhhhhh!
I don't know if its elves in general or just Jason, but once he starts
in laughing and can't stop, it can last until he's sick to his stomach
on the floor. I uncurled my legs from the sofa and got him a glass of
water, then stepped out onto the cold, rain-soaked deck to cool my
burning cheeks. When I came back in he was still laughing weakly,
though he looked like he was in pain, with tears running down his
cheeks. It served him right.
I''m going to bed Jason, I said and patted him not too gently on the
back, determined to leave him alone with his mirth. But I couldn't
help but smile. My heart swelled with the thought that Haldir wasn't
attached after all. But then why would he sometimes seem interested,
then push me away?
4 November
There is so much about the ages before Methentaurond and the way the
elves have lived in Allinde's library that we can't learn it all in a
few short months. We must be able to understand and interpret it
after they are gone. What we need most of all is a linguist, someone
who could learn the words and the heart of the elvish language
quickly. I believe we found the perfect person today.
Her name is Arianna, at 23 the youngest associate professor of
linguistics at Lajos Kossuth University in Debrecen, Hungary. Her
biography on the University website said that she was the daughter of
a Hungarian diplomat. As a young child she traveled extensively
wherever her father's position had taken him. Her parents noticed
that from a very early age Arianna had an astounding aptitude and
insatiable hunger for languages. She overcame her initial shyness and
collected words and phrases from each native person she met and
quietly charmed – the maids, the visiting dignitaries, the
shopkeepers, doctors, or groundskeepers - like other little girls
collected stuffed animals. Her parents quickly provided her with
language tutors and immersed her in each culture that she encountered.
Besides her native Hungarian, by the time she was eighteen she was
already fluent in, Russian, German, English, and Arabic. She also had
an equal interest and knowledge in the people that spoke these
languages. Upon entering the University, she began to study the
cultural origins of language itself.
Jason and I could have found many people internationally, and even
some Americans, with equal fluency. But it was the sixth language
Arianna spoke, and the research that had become her passion, that
sealed my interest in her.
Her current course offering was "Inspired by Nature: the Origins of
Japanese Language and Calligraphy." There was a web page describing
the class and the research behind it. Despite my dismal performance
even under Allinde's expert guidance, her ideas were much like my
humble impressions of Sindarin, Jason's native tongue. The Elvish
language is rich with imagery and descriptions derived from nature:
the passage of time is likened to a bird on the wing; movement is
communicated through the symbolism of the wind or the currents of a
river; new thoughts or new life through the rising of the sun or the
changing seasons. The Elvish language was as much poetic imagery as
it was language, revering and celebrating the beauty of the natural
world. Arianna described Japanese as developing in much the same way.
I thought she was extremely promising. When Jason and I arrived from
our plane flight to meet her late one afternoon in her cramped office
in the University language department, her shelves and desk
overflowing but orderly with books and manuscripts, her walls aglow
with prints of colorful Japanese woodcuts, we were sure.
Arianna was cheerful, beautiful (a definite plus with Jason), and
brilliant. Her infectious enthusiasm and energy, her absolute passion
for peoples and languages won me over in an instant. That, and what
we found in the language department's basement kitchenette.
It hadn't taken too much prodding to get Arianna to open up and
discuss her studies with us. Jason had inserted a few innocuous
personal questions that assured us of her freedom to take a break from
her work without arousing too much suspicion – she was single and
unattached, her parents had passed away, and her work involved
frequent travel.
I began carefully and in very general terms to explain to her why we
had come – that we had a research project to propose to her that would
break new ground and support her theories of language development, and
that we had brought something of interest to show her – when she
sprang up and announced, mostly to Jason, that she had been remiss as
a hostess in not offering us coffee first. She insisted that we
follow her into the department kitchenette so we could continue our
conversation.
I thought I recognized the purpose of the blue bin on the counter.
"Arianna, is that. . . a worm bed?" I asked her.
"Oh. Yes," she said, and I noticed that her Hungarian accent became
more pronounced when she became shy. "It's for the coffee grounds,
and lunch scraps. I take the compost home for my garden."
"This is your idea? My dear, this is wonderful!" Jason said, raising
the lid and making Arianna blush profusely. I sympathized with her
and tried not to grin – Jason had that effect on women, especially
young ones.
"Well," she continued when she saw our enthusiasm, "at first the
others laughed rudely at me for bringing it in, but now we all feed
them. Even old professor Tempkin now calls them our department pets,"
she said proudly.
"But now," she clapped her hands eagerly, "what do you have to show
me?" and led us back to her office fortified with steaming cups of
thick Hungarian coffee.
"First," I cautioned, "you must promise that what is said here will go
no further than this room, at least not for several months. This
project is very sensitive. As a researcher I know that you can
appreciate the damage that can be done, both to the research itself
and to the object of that research, if it is exposed prematurely.
What irreplaceable knowledge can be lost forever with a careless word
or a dropped note."
"Of course, of course I understand," Arianna said carefully but with
clear enthusiasm.
"You would have to take a sabbatical, say beginning next month or so –
give some excuse that would be plausible to your colleagues without
revealing the exact nature of your work. We would of course reimburse
you for the wages that you would have earned here during this time,
and pay you for your work with us as well. But even if you decide not
to accept our proposal, we would ask that you promise not speak of it
to anyone."
"Yes, I promise," she said decisively. What have you to show me?
Please explain."
I looked at Jason. There would be no going back from here. He nodded
his head almost imperceptibly.
"I think you might want to sit down," I advised Arianna. I took a
deep breath and carefully pulled Jason's elvish book out of my purse.
I gently opened it and spread it and my language notes on Arianna's
crowded desk.
She drew the book reverently toward her, and her eyes grew to twice
their normal size.
"Arianna, what if I told you that there is an ancient culture hidden
in the wilds. . . "I began, and we talked through the fading
afternoon light and long into the evening.
9 November
We also need a doctor, not only to learn what the elves can teach us,
but for our own group's health and safety. I have no unrealistic
expectations that Lomion or Haldir will be able to teach their
seemingly magical healing powers to us, but there is much to be
learned in herbal medicine. I thought instantly of Joel Martin.
Joel had been a brilliant pre-med student while I had been an
architectural undergraduate, but somehow we had found ourselves both
in the same Rural Society class. I was there to learn about rural
settlement patterns; Joel to find the science behind old wives tales
and herbal remedies at a time when the medical establishment scoffed
at such silliness. He was hell-bent on proving them wrong. I don't
think either one of us got what we came for, but we did get to know
each other.
Joel had been darkly handsome, intense, and passionate about leading
medicine in a more wholistic direction long before the term "wellness"
was coined. I had lost track of him when he had left Berkeley to
pursue his doctorate studying herbal medicine in the rural mountains
of Appalachia.
I found him through the alumni directory, not so very far away at the
University of San Francisco Medical Center. He was now a practicing
physician and medical researcher. I wanted to know if he was still as
dedicated to his dream as he had been in college.
Jason and I had a hard time making an appointment with him. We
finally caught up with him as he jogged up to his house in the upper-
scale neighborhood of North Beach. Luckily he remembered me. He
invited us into his roomy, designer-furnished home office. It offered
an unobstructed view of the beach and a wall thick with certificates
and photos and folk art antiques. Dr. Joel had done quite well for
himself.
Missing were the obligatory family pictures; no portrait of wife or
kids on the desk. It didn't surprise me. Joel was in excellent
physical condition, graying yet still magnetically handsome. But his
schedule was obviously stressful and demanding, and the way he showed
us into his study told me that he had retained a healthy dose of
egotism. Perhaps this was why, for all his professional success, he
had apparently not found it advantageous to maintain his marriage,
even in light of his Catholic upbringing.
I turned our visit from personal reminiscences to appreciative
questions about Joel's research at the medical center. Joel was more
than happy to impress us with his accomplishments. It quickly became
apparent that he had drifted away from his love of herbal medicine
into more heavily funded research, until what had begun as temporary
spurts of needed income had become his entire focus. He spoke
wistfully of his years in Appalachia – how idealistic he had been
then; what fascinating things he had seen and learned, how he wished
he had persevered through the hard, lean times when there was no
backing to be found. But, he said as if trying to convince himself,
what he did here was valuable, too, and very rewarding.
You sold out, Joel, I accused him harshly. You let a lifestyle you
could brag about, your need to be patted on the back, control you
instead of the other way around. You let the big wheels with the big
grants and the even bigger strings attached tell you to study what
they wanted you to study. Did they tell you what results they wanted
you to find, too?
I knew I wasn't being fair to attack Joel's integrity, but I wanted
him to get angry. I wanted to see the passion that I thought might
still be there.
I can't believe you just said that to me, he stood up and spat in
indignation. I invited you into my home, you and a total stranger, he
waved at Jason. For what? So you could attack me? You've worn out
your welcome, Marian. I think you both need to leave right now!
Jason and I got up and allowed ourselves to be firmly led down the
paneled hallway toward the door.
You can protest all you want, DOCTOR, I jabbed as we reached the door,
but you know I'm right.
Get out of my house, Joel said, still incensed, but the tone of his
voice told me that I had hit a sensitive area.
I can offer you a fresh beginning Joel, a second chance to follow the
dreams I know you still have, I pressed as he opened the door.
I opened my garden notebook for the first time to a pressed plant of a
kind that Gladrel had prepared infusions of for Lomion several times;
a plant that I hoped Joel would recognize – or rather, not recognize-
as one he had never seen before.
He stopped in the middle of his attempt to shove us out the door,
blinked hard, and reached for my notebook. I slammed it shut.
Think of the things you could learn, Joel, the new medicines you could
bring back and teach your students to use. Who knows what diseases
this plant, or others like it, could cure? Here's my card, I said,
writing my cell phone number on the back and shoving it into his
pocket. I'll give you a week to call me, no more. Cell phones only.
One week, Joel, and I'll tell you all about it. Come with me for a
couple of months, and I'll show you.
He closed the door soundly behind us.
I went too far. I blew it, I said to Jason as we stepped down the
hill in front of Joel's house. And you didn't exactly help. You
didn't even open your mouth. I thought you were here to help me?
You were on a roll, Marian, why interrupt? Jason said with a grin.
I shook my head and got in the passenger side of the car when Jason
held the door open for me. What I said wasn't fair. It wasn't true,
I told Jason guiltily.
He's comfortable and secure, dear one, but he knows there's something
missing, Jason told me. His soul is sleeping. It wants to wake up
again.
He'll call, Jason said.
I drove back from San Francisco. Marian was too preoccupied. She craned her neck every time she pointed to an interesting building. She did the same whenever she saw a bright red car or a tall man with long blond hair pass by on the crowded streets. To be anywhere near a car with architects in it driving through San Francisco is dangerous, but this was worse. She surely would have run someone down. I negotiated the maze of traffic and let her wear herself out without endangering the public or, more importantly, me.
I knew that it wouldn't be right for me to talk to Marian about her feelings for Haldir; not until she decided to tell me about them. That is why even though I wanted to I didn't tell her that I could see her looking, and that I knew he would have already left.
Finally we crossed the Bay Bridge and out of The City proper (only San Francisco would call itself "The City", as if no other place on earth could be comparable enough to call itself one). By the time we left most of the traffic behind us and were cruising through the warmer, windy hills east of the bay, she was dozing.
10 November
Maybe it was being in San Francisco. Or perhaps it is because I can't
stop wanting Haldir, can't keep myself from hoping that even though he
has no choice but to leave, he might let me into his heart when I see
him again, just for a little while. I think of the huckleberries and
how he held me at night, and I can't help but hope he has some small
feelings for me. All I know is that the dream I had last night was
the most vivid, most intensely sexual dream I have ever experienced .
As soon as I awoke I could feel that he was coming. I hurriedly
buckled my last layer of faded and somewhat frayed robes as I heard
his steps approaching the door. I checked the last of the laces to
ensure that they were firmly tied. The faint squeak of the door
bolt, rarely used and thus significant, sounded through the heavy
curtains. I wouldn't have heard him coming inside if he hadn't
wanted to alert me to his arrival.
My palms had become damp with the hurried preparations that I
had only wakened and decided on a few minutes ago. The sitting
room beyond the curtains was now still, and I knew he stood
somewhere silently, waiting for me. Or was he even now silently
stalking me?
Taking a slow breath to calm myself, I wiped my hands on the
front of my skirts and slowly drew the heavy bedroom curtains
aside, stepping purposefully into the room to confront him. Where
was he?
I looked around swiftly. I wouldn't be able to discern his
location unless he moved, and he knew it. He would avoid the pale,
horizontal light of first dawn falling tentative and hazy on the
far wall and throwing the rest of the room into a warm chiaroscuro
of dim grays and darker, shadowy corners. Yet I felt his presence
strongly – he was here. Waiting.
My pulse quickening in the base of my throat, I advanced one,
two silent steps into the room. Then I froze like a timid rabbit
that knows the hungry fox is near. Sensing rather than seeing or
hearing the furtive movement, too late I spun around. How had he
so easily moved behind me, and when?
I wondered fleetingly if anyone was near enough to hear should I
scream. Before I could finish turning, before I could draw breath
enough to call out, he was upon me.
A demanding mouth claimed my own with no prelude, no request for
permission. Iron-muscled arms crushed me against a tall
uncompromising frame. I clutched at his travel-worn and dusty
garments, twisting ineffectively in his firm grasp. I felt the
vibration of laughter on his firm, possessive lips. Could I have
released my own lips from his to cry out, I knew that this time it
would not dissuade him from the demands of his physical need.
So when at last he loosened his hold on me and allowed me but a
few inches of precious freedom, one arm still firmly holding me
against him, I did not waste my breath to speak, but only to gasp
for air.
"Endlessly have I savored the thought of this moment these long,
lonely weeks," he said in a low voice rough with both desire and
victory.
"No one is near," he added meaningfully as he evaluated and
dismissed each lace and grommet of my robe's bodice for the minor
challenge they would present.
I had known from the moment I had awakened that my hurried
preparations would be futile against his strong and nimble hands.
But then, I'd had other reasons for dressing as I had. So I looked
him directly in his dark, bottomless eyes, feigning bravery as he
backed me into the growing shaft of sunlight. I caught my breath
as it set his shining and unfettered hair into a blaze of golden
fire tinted red and orange by the sun. So, he had taken the time
to bathe before he sought to track me down.
He reached up with his free hand to twirl the lace on my bodice
slowly around his index finger. He began to pull the bow loose,
cockily awaiting my reaction. Waiting for any chance to break
loose from him, I steadied my gaze and my mind so as not to reveal
my inner thoughts.
The set of his mouth betraying slight irritation, he yanked the
bow the rest of the way, unexpectedly finding that the knot held
fast. My lip curled involuntarily, signaling my minor victory.
His eyes sparkled darkly in response, daring me to try to escape as
he released my waist to free the double knot.
Though we were somewhat closer to the locked door now, I knew
this was not the time to try to run – not yet.
Quickly he grasped me by the arms again and slid my gown down
off of my shoulders. It fell into folds on the floor and I kicked
it free, not wanting to trip over it should I have a small
opportunity to flee.
With the searing gaze that I had never quite become accustomed
to, he studied his next challenge – another layer of clothing that
I wore under the discarded gown, but not the last. He began to
realize that he was still far from his goal. Murmurs of desire and
intrigued annoyance floated at the corners of my mind, but he would
not yet allow me full knowledge of his thoughts.
"It is not wise to toy with me so early in the morning, melamin,
and especially not in my current. . . condition," he warned me,
and a fleeting but strong wave of lust rippled across my own
thoughts, tugging at them playfully.
I looked down at his breeches and saw clearly the condition to
which he was referring. I looked up and gave him a taunting smile.
I was sure that he could sense that in fact, my condition by this
time was not so different from his own.
Stepping back slightly, he dropped his own belt and loosened his
tunic, his eyes momentarily losing sight of me as he pulled it and
his undertunic over his head all at once.
Willing myself with utmost difficulty not to tarry in admiration
of his bare flexing chest and arms, I saw my chance and made a
break for the door.
I got almost halfway, shrieking as I barely eluded his grasp by
twisting to the side and planting the sofa firmly between us.
I knew he could have caught me easily and that the sofa offered
me no protection. The predatorial look he fixed me with as he
began to move smoothly to the side, and the rise and fall of his
chest as he began to breath harder, told me that I had set his
primal masculine instincts into full pitch.
Haldir was equally as formidable a lover in bed as he was a
fierce warrior in battle. I was rarely a match for his unbridled
ardor. I knew he often held back from the edge when we made love.
I wondered if this time I had started something, the consequences
of which I wouldn't be able to handle. Even though I knew he would
never hurt me, I felt a twinge of apprehension.
He smiled cockily again, and I knew he had felt my inner
hesitation in his own mind. "It is much, much too late to stop the
game that you yourself began, my sweet prize. I trust," he purred,
and I felt his voice become almost a physical caress on my body,
"That you are not overly fond of the clothing you have so uselessly
tied. . . and buckled. . . and wrapped so tightly around
yourself." He punctuated each word with another step around the
sofa, which I matched with my own, keeping it firmly between us.
On the contrary, I replied shakily, trying to keep my voice from
rising to an alto-soprano, these garments are each very dear to me
in their own way.
His eyebrows cocked wickedly, and I knew I had given myself
away. He had only guessed up until now at the many of layers I had
applied to myself, making sure each was thin enough that the total
effect was not obviously bulky.
"The garments are old, and worn," he countered, continuing to
slowly stalk me. "You would be much more appealing were I to
relieve you of them!" With that he feigned right and I bolted for
the door, only to see him leap easily over the sofa and corner me,
clasping me tightly against his hips. What easy prey I was! I
scolded myself as I gasped for breath.
They are of great sentimental value, I found myself chattering
as he raptly watched my chest heave against my clothing with each
indrawn breath. I would be heartbroken, I said, were you to damage
them in any way.
As any cornered animal might do, I sprang forward and tried to
knock him off balance, only to have him twist me off my feet and
position himself firmly on top of me on the floor.
"You lie very badly," he whispered hotly into my ear and
straddled my hips. Without warning he ripped the next garment from
my waist, revealing another, thinner gown beneath. He was getting
closer. Seeing that it was also laced tightly across my breasts,
he smiled and wrapped my hair around one hand. Reaching down with
the other, he unbuckled the fabric belt, kissing my lips feverishly
and then lowering his head to pull the laces with his teeth. Now
he allowed his craving for me wash through my mind, feeding my own
desire for him and making me heady and weak. I grasped his thick,
long hair in my hands, not sure if I wanted to fight him or help
him, carried away by his long-awaited passion and my own breathless
state of anticipation.
Pulling the laces he again found them double-knotted. Growling
in impatience he let go of my hair and ripped the fabric from my
chest to my waist, every layer at once, and feasted on the sight of
my bare breasts. He gave a gutteral cry of conquest and lowered
his head, attending to them until I was arching up to him, begging
him to go lower, hardly able to endure waiting.
Reaching one hand lower to rip the garments down my hips while
he continued to mercilessly and deliciously tease me, his hand
stopped cold and he raised back away from my chest in wide-eyed
disbelief, his thoughts unguarded and clear in my mind. I smiled.
"Leggings?!?!" he shouted loudly, his voice cracking in ultimate
frustration. It was a wonder that the whole city didn't hear him.
His lips drawn closed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring, he
heaved himself back and in one movement tore the threadbare
leggings and the rest of my dresses down over my legs and off my
feet, and threw them across the room. Towering over me, his chest
heaving with pent-up passion, the outline of his form aglow with
the sunlight growing stronger behind him, I marveled as always that
this elf had bonded himself to me and me alone.
I looked up at him, biting my lip in amusement. You're still
dressed, I commented, looking pointedly at the laces of his own
leggings.
Staring down at me with steely eyes flashing, he knelt in front
of me. I reached out and ever so slowly pulled his laces free.
Growling impatiently, he pulled them down. Not bothering to remove
them further than his thighs, h e pushed forward and pinned my hips
to the floor firmly but not uncomfortably, and held me there.
"You are mine," he stated in the deepest of velvety tones as his
body locked heavily, possessively with mine. My hips rose
automatically to meet his movements, and he pushed my hips down
against the floor again. I wriggled beneath him, desperate for him
to continue, to sweep me away with the fiery sensations that his
attentions had caused me.
"Say you are mine," he demanded huskily both out loud and in my
mind, and held my eyes locked to his own, not moving, not allowing
me to make him move. Breathing heavily, he smiled cheekily again
at my helpless and needy condition. Slowly, tortuously, he moved
away from me once more, poising himself barely above me. I
strained needfully to touch him once more, but he matched my
efforts move for move, staying just the smallest bit away. He knew
he was driving me wild.
Finally, suddenly, he thrust against me again. "Say you are
mine," he demanded again, breathing hard and shakily through
clenched teeth. He gasped when a long moan escaped my lips. I was
shuddering with my need for him, near the end of my ability to
think clearly. Every thought, every sensation was now centered on
him. Yet I knew from his shuddering breaths that he also could not
control himself much longer.
As usual, when I am completely helpless I become the most
idiotically defiant. I glared up at him. YOU are MINE, I answered
him. I felt his chest and stomach shake with mirth and raw passion
combined. He raised back and grasped me close, at last allowing
himself to make love to me in earnest.
It is good to be home, amrún nín, he grinned as I whispered his
name and cried out with pleasure and the strong, warm sun poured
into the room.
If I continue on dreaming this way, I don't know how I'll manage to
stay sane. I count each hour, each minute until I'm near him again:
15 November
If I didn't know that we were in southern Chile I would think that we
were in northern California, except that there aren't as many roads,
or people. Substitute forests of monkey puzzle trees for redwoods,
and it's like someone took the entire sweep of the California
coastline from sunny Newport Beach to the rainy Oregon border and
turned it upside down over the Equator.
We were looking for Roger Martinez's bank near the northern border of
the Malleco National Reserve, but the transplanted Oregon native we
were looking for was "in the field" at the invitation of the Chilean
park service, so we followed him into the interior with one of the
rangers who would pick him up by helicopter.
We spotted him collecting seeds at the base of one of the ancient pine
trees and he waved a wide-brimmed straw hat at us as we passed
overhead to find a place to land.
Martinez nodded at the ranger as we approached through the underbrush
and held out a handful of seeds. You know, he lectured to no one in
particular as he overturned and examined each one, these trees don't
produce seeds until they're almost 200 years old. Then when they do,
these buggers sprout almost all year long. Don't keep well, though,
even in cold storage, he added absently. They've got a mind to grow.
So who the hell are you and why are you bothering me? he yelled
gruffly, glaring at Jason at last. The intimidating effect the old
man was hoping for was ruined, however, when at the same time he
removed his straw hat, nodded at me, and acknowledged my presence with
a polite "Señorita." Marian, I said. His attention went straight
back to Jason. Jason introduced himself and Martinez shook his hand
with an iron grip. It was obvious who sr. Martinez figured was in
charge.
He's hard of hearing, un poco, Ranger Palacios held his thumb and
index finger up close together to demonstrate, and headed back to the
helicopter to wait.
I am not, Martinez grumbled a little less loudly and cast the receding
ranger a fond if irritated look with sharp, clear eyes that belied his
76 years. Roger Martinez was old but he was deeply tanned, wiry and
spry, riding in bicycle marathons in his spare time. Jason and I had
no doubt that he would make it to Methentaurond with no trouble, if we
could convince him to go with us. I was right in assuming that when
he saw what was in my plant notebook, it would be easy. Once he had
felt that he had protested enough, that is.
He'd gone to the University, studied horticulture and crop genetics.
He found out he could get anything to grow that he wanted to, so he
became a Master Gardener too. He'd dropped out of school once he
became disgusted with commercial agriculture's focus on engineering
their crops for mass harvesting and nothing else. Why a tomato didn't
even taste like a tomato anymore!
He soon became alarmed at the loss of plant varieties. The big farms
used three, maybe four types of tomatos; the rest were disappearing
even from grandma's garden. If the few varieties the farms used got
some disease they couldn't resist; if the crops were decimated, then
where would we all be? Up the proverbial creek without a paddle,
that's where! he yelled for emphasis.
Variety isn't just the spice of life, young sr. Jason, he said,
pointing at Jason's chest for emphasis, it's what will save us as a
species. That's why he started the seed bank, down here where people
minded their own business.
He'd gathered seeds for every kind of plant he could find, from every
heirloom garden and park and mountain and swamp. Somebody had to do
it, so why not him? He now sold organic seeds by mail order. People
sent him new varieties from all over the world. His seed bank was the
biggest one in the Western Hemisphere. He had over twenty gardeners
working for him; some of them actually knew what they were doing
because they listened to him when he told them what to do, and why.
Few really understood: You didn't just stick a seed in the dirt and
water it. You had to talk to it, listen to what it needed.
I nodded in agreement. Gladrel was going to love Roger Martinez.
Someday, Martinez continued lecturing us, some young man would find a
cure for cancer - a compound in a rare, disappearing plant that would
have that special something that none of the others like it would have
- and they would come to him to get it. Even now he had a scientist
from some University in Brazil snooping around his gardens with his
microscopes and his computers.
Once he came down to Chile where his parents had been born, he told
us, he loved it so much that he swore he would never go back to the
States. You couldn't even blow your nose there without somebody
telling you how to do it. Too many lawyers. Not enough common sense.
What made us think that we could talk him into going back?
Jason said in his best endearing voice, ¿Pero tiene una familia en
Oregon, no?
Sure I do, he barked, a son who'd done well for himself, had a pretty
daughter-in-law and a fine grandson. But what did that have to do
with anything? They visited him down here every year.
Seeds, I said.
¿Qué? What? sr. Martinez squinted at me.
Seeds! I said a little louder.
Well you don't have to yell you know, he grumbled and shook his head.
What kind of seeds? he then asked with a keen eye. I had finally
gotten his attention.
Well, I don't know, sr. Martinez, I replied and opened my gardening
notebook and plant press on the ground below the monkey puzzle tree.
I thought maybe you could tell me.
I've. . . I've never seen anything like these, he said, running a
finger gently but excitedly across the soft, fuzzy surface of a
pressed leaf. Where did you find these?
I looked at Jason and he nodded.
We'll take you there, Jason told him. But don't tell señor Palacios
or anyone else about this.
Young man! Martinez said in exasperation, glancing at the ranger in
the helicopter. I may be old but I'm not daft . And my name's Roger,
so use it.
Sr. Martinez - Roger - flew back with us in the helicopter. He was
done for the day and wanted to get back to his gardens to see if
anyone had screwed things up while he was gone.
Got a young one there, do you? he elbowed me in the arm and cocked his
head at Jason as we flew over the forest toward the coast.
Jason threw back his head and laughed. He had been teasing me
mercilessly since I had cut back my hair and started to let it go gray
again. I was doing so because of what Haldir had said to me, but I
wasn't about to admit that to Jason.
Now you know who's really in charge, Roger, Jason said.
¿Es verdad? Martinez asked Jason and looked from him to me with
newfound interest.
Quite true, Jason grinned at me.
Fine, I knew when I was being ganged up on. I folded my arms in front
of me and ignored them both by looking out the window.
Well, will wonders never cease, said Roger.
I am looking forward to showing him how true his words really are.
By the middle of December Marian and I had contacted nine people who we wanted to join us. Joel had called us back, as I had predicted. Marian's only serious disappointment was that her friend Matt, a lawyer, would not be coming. Matt had gained an international reputation championing environmental causes. He and Marian had argued constantly about the methods, if not the end results. Take the spotted owl for example, the little brown predator that was the successful if controversial poster-child for hundreds of acres of old-growth redwoods being removed from logging. Endangered nesting areas my eye, Marian would say, spotted owls nest behind Safeway signs for crying out loud. It's nothing but bullshit propaganda. Exactly, Matt would retort, those without the power and money had to use whatever methods they could to get the results they wanted. The ends don't justify the means, Marian would tell him. There's nothing lower than lying to get what you want. Oh Marian, Matt would reply, don't be naive. One side exaggerates one way, the other side has to exaggerate the opposite direction, or nothing will ever happen. And on. . . and on. . . I got the distinct impression that the ever-present promise of a good-natured detailed argument was the main basis for their long friendship.
Unfortunately Matt the workaholic bachelor had just gotten married and was not in the frame of mind to spend months on end away from his new wife. He was too nervous about blowing it. We had only started a long-distance phone conversation to Atlanta, Georgia with him when I signaled Marian to cut it short before we gave him too much information. To say that she was disappointed was a vast understatement.
Matt is the most intelligent person I've ever met, Marian complained to me when I told her - I mean strongly advised her - not to ask him to come. His heart is in the right place. He knows how to convince people. He's persistent. He knows how to write resolutions and debate issues and. . . and all of that lawyer stuff we need to protect Methentaurond. He would have been perfect. Perfect. . .
Matt was the only person we contacted for whom Marian's heart masked her better judgement. She finally said she agreed with me, but in spite of her words I could tell she hadn't quite let the idea go.
That left us with eight: Arianna, Joel, Roger, Dieter, a security expert, Yasmin, a cultural anthropologist, Martha, an art historian, Tommy Woo, a botanist who was, as luck would have it, a musician as well, and Mason Wells, an ecologist. Marian also wanted a structural engineer, but I told her that the engineer could come later. Being an architect, she could cover engineering interests herself for the time being. And we needed to keep the size of our group small, for manageability and to keep a low profile.
We would leave in early January, barely within the four month deadline that Haldir had rightly insisted upon. It would give everyone the holidays to make their arrangements and allow Marian to visit with her daughters before we left. She had decided not to tell them what we were up to until she could announce it to everyone. Her oldest, she said, wouldn't believe her anyway, and her youngest would believe her at once but couldn't keep a secret.
Bruno, of course, would come with us. After his first trip with her, Marian said, it just wouldn't be fair to leave him behind.
We decided that we would pose as a religious group going on a retreat in case questions were asked. Yasmin, the anthropologist, objected to this on the grounds that she was an athiest and a scientist, not a Baptist, but Marian quickly convinced her that the choice was the most logical one. Why else, she posed to Yasmin, would people believe that anyone would go backpacking in January unless it was a devout religious group heading into the wilderness? Outwardly Yasmin said that she was coming mainly so that she could prove us wrong about just about everything we told her. But Marian knew as well as I that she was posturing. Marian added that the strongest supporters of a cause were the converts. She had a good point.
In deference to the less experienced hikers, we gave everyone a list of what to bring with them, as well as what was absolutely, strictly forbidden, namely electronic devices of any type. A massive groan escaped each person at this horrible announcement, especially the young ones who had grown up literally attached to their computers. Marian was adamant. Electronic devices could give away our location. The scientists among the group responded more to Marian's statement that a good researcher did as little as possible to change the object being studied. No one used computers or other electronics where we were going; there was no electricity at all. None would be allowed.
We arranged by cell phone to meet together in the meeting room above the bar in the old stone gold-rush era Soda Works building in downtown. We would meet at night, January 8, which was the night of the antique car show and auction on Main Street, an annual event that would draw hundreds of people. As I remembered from experience long past, the old Soda Works had a convenient back door that led directly from the second floor to a narrow tree-shaded alley on the hill behind the Main Street businesses. Hopefully this would give us the cover we needed to leave unnoticed.
We would soon discover that my warnings of discovery were not unfounded.
Song from the broadway play "". Pen muin: Dear one. Amrún nín: My sunrise.