The Temple Walls

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

Hillwood:40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W

Don't Send The Authorities To Do A Stalker's Work
38°53'42"N 77°02'12"W
September 20th, 09:05

Helga soon realised just how quickly one fortnight could pass.

There were plenty of times in her life when days had seemed to move by faster than they should. Once, as a thirteen year old girl in the sweltering humidity of the San Lorenzo jungle, she'd felt a month pass by as though it were only a handful of hours. Later in life, examinations and assignments had come upon her almost unawares and deadlines seemed to pack themselves tightly into narrow weeks. Somewhere in between all that, too, she'd gained and lost a husband in four quick and dizzying years.

Maybe it was because the here-and-now seemed so much more pressing than the past, but, Helga felt as though this time, everything had blown past her in a particularly painful way.

It could have also had something to do with the packed out meeting room full of colleagues she currently stood at the helm of. Each of their beady little eyes were trained upon her in anticipation; for better or worse. Protocol dictated that she hold an official meeting, should she need to undertake any period of absence so close to the roll-out of the election campaign. Helga would have ordinarily said get screwed to protocol and, indeed, had been planning to do just that, until a certain pompous and stuff lawyer had gotten wind of her travel plans and bombarded her with schmancily worded stipulations and mandates what-nots. As a result, this was the emergency meeting she'd been forced to call.

"Because of a whole bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, I've called this meeting to tell you I'm leaving the country in a few days. I don't know when I'll be back. Don't ask me where I'm going. It's my personal business, so it's none of yours."

The expected whisperers and protests broke out among the gathered staff. Among the hushed, private discussions that popped up around the circular table, were those more vocal, who addressed their loud questions to the front of the room. Helga scowled until there was silence.

"Everything you need for the campaign roll-out is here. All the policy briefings are in your dropboxes and there are pre-prepared statements for anywhere up to a month of media reports. If you need them, there are taped speeches ready, too. Don't use them unless you need to. Capiche?"

"But," spoke the short, wiry media consultant Helga recognised from the economic summit. "But what if we need to contact you?"

"For what? You've got everything here." her eyes narrowed. "If you chuckleheads can't last a few weeks without me – Oh, what am I saying, of course you can't. Fine, if you need to contact me, then you can send letters to this... outpost. What's it called?"

Helga rifled almost violently through her handbag, whilst her staff watched on, essentially in silence. It took her longer than expected to even find the bundle of paper the information would be written upon, her bag being so littered with cardboard folders, jump drives, make-up she'd barely ever touched and who knew what else. The name she was looking for was tidily penned onto an old but pristine white envelope which housed a letter that she'd never opened; the envelope taken directly from her childhood bedroom's cupboard.

"Cruzeiro, San Lorenzo. I'll email the details to you. All of you." she paused, letter held tightly in her palm. "Any other questions?"

It hadn't entirely been a sincere question. Actually, she'd attempted to phrase it more like a threat.

Somebody dared to raise their hand in any case.

"Are you certain this vacation could not be held off until after the election?"

"This isn't a vacation,"

"It's just," the woman pushed on. "Registration is finalized soon. This is a pivotal time."

"The registration is precisely why this issue needs to be attended to immediately."

"Ah," said a scratchy male voice. "Still tryin' to get rid of that last name, huh?"

Helga's eyes flew to the back of the room. Leaning against the doorframe, smirking like the cat who'd caught the mouse, was Ronald.

"Who invited Ron?"

Nobody moved for a few long moments. There was some throat-clearing and gentle nudging.

A tall man gingerly raised his hand. "I did," he admitted, rather gently. "I had him make the copies of the policy briefings. I'm sorry."

"You will be sorry." Helga griped. "Ron, get out of my sight. Now."

Apparently pleased with the commotion he'd caused, Ron barely even hesitated in reaching for the door. Helga realised all too late, that she should've expected a parting comment. Partially out into the hallway he paused, winked over his shoulder and called out, deliberately on the verge of a shout,

"Come speak to me once the divorce is finalized, yeah?"

The door slammed shut behind him.

"Divorce?" another staff-member repeated. "I hadn't a clue you were married."

"Didn't you? Well, I knew." said another.

"I was always confused," muttered another, just loud enough to carry. "You know, whether she was Shortman or Pataki."

Helga quieted the discussion with a thunderous expression and one stubbornly raised hand.

"None of this information leaves this room. Understood?"

Their returning nods were a variant between enthusiastically quick and thoughtfully slow. Still, she did not continue until each and every person in the room had indicated their understanding.

"Yes, I'm married. And no, it's none of your business but, yes, I do have to track down my good-for-nothing idiot of a husband. I do have to trek my way through the jungles of San Lorenzo until I find him. None of which I'm happy about."

The woman seated at the cusp of the meeting table, tapping her manicured nails against the acrylic surface, looked faintly horrified.

"Trekking through a jungle? Doesn't that seem a little dangerous?"

"Yes," agreed her offsider. "Certainly there are government agencies who could handle that sort of things on your behalf."

"I survived the jungle three times before, and the first I was only ten years old. Don't think I can't handle it this time." Helga returned defensively. "The agencies can't help me because they're a useless bunch of fear-mongering pansies."

Perhaps half, if not more, of the room had possibly not listened past the first sentence.

"What were you doing in a jungle at ten?"

Helga could almost feel her eye twitch. "Enjoying a fifth grade field trip," she said with no small measure of sarcasm. "And saving prisoners of war from manic pirates..."

There were many reasons for which Helga, as a general rule, did not elaborate on her childhood to others. Many were of direct relation to Bob and Miriam, who deserved not to be spoken of at all more so than they deserved to be spoken of with distaste. Others, of course, involved Arnold and invoked a dual sense of sickly nostalgia and consuming rage. Then, there was the fact that most of her adolescence was filled with stories and tales that caused the expression she was receiving at that very moment - the confused and slack-jawed look of horror and disbelief.

"When you know Arnold, things like that tend to happen."

And with that comment, she'd entirely intended to wrap up the meeting. There was a tone of finality in her voice and in her swift movement toward the door. Again, somebody failed to get the memo.

"Who is Arnold?"

Helga's handbag, which she'd been lifting onto her shoulder, slumped heavily into the crook of her arm. Personally, she'd stopped moving entirely, aside from her eyes, which slid to the man who'd asked the ill-advised question. There was a moment like, as she'd done for so many years, she thought to ignore the question entirely. But something in her was too irritated to do that now.

"My useless husband,"

Her words were harsh. The woman sitting a foot from where Helga stood flinched.

"Oh, you married the little boy who helped you save prisoners of war?"

This had come from well across the room. The two women with perfectly manicured nails, one of whom had made the sugar-coated comment, seemed to both be fawning between themselves.

"Technically, I helped him," she explained curtly, all the while wondering why. "Seeing as the prisoners were his parents."

It wasn't long before Helga was met with a sniffling sound. When eyes drifted in her general direction, Helga realised the woman directly beside her was tearing up, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered cloth.

"That's just such a beautiful story." she proclaimed through the waterworks.

"It's just so romantic," said the second of the manicured bores. "You know, sort of..."

"I bet you could make a TV show of it."

"Or a movie,"

"Yeah! Definitely, a movie."

"Adventures Into The Jungle."

"The Jungle Book."

"The Jungle Movie!"

"No." Helga growled, slamming her palm against the desk. "It's not a beautiful romantic story and no, it's not going to be a TV show."

The Jungle Book guy shifted in his seat.

"Or a movie." she shouted.

Finally, silence settled across the room again. Helga took a deep, loud breath.

"You're all going to get back to work now, and you're not going to speak a word of this to anybody else. Not anybody. Not even each other. Got it?"

In response, there were complaints and murmurs and more whispers. Helga was far from satisfied, but all too eager to have them leave her in peace. Instead of reiterating her demand she stood stiffly, with a chilling glare that would have her nine-year-old self green with envy, and waited for her staff to file back out into the office.

They'd all stood and begun to exit, when another question sounded.

"But, how do you know you'll be able to find him?"

Helga didn't bother looking to see who'd asked, not even to turn her scowl upon them.

"Because," she answered. "I know that boy better than anyone."

The cooing noises and mumbles that resulted grew deaf to her ears. Another battle over the best movie title was drowned out under the flinging around of words like adorable and romantic by the salon-sisters. But Helga's mind was filled with thoughts of her own comment. After the very last person had stepped from the meeting room, she sunk into the nearest chair.

"Or, at least," she mumbled to herself. "I used to..."

A/N: The story lives on! It's slow going, I know, but one day this will be completed. That said, I know I've already explained that life for me has become super busy – hence the delayed updates – but I've been struggling recently just with writing in general. Either I'm being too harsh on myself, or the quality of my work has dropped. The inspiration lacks and the stories just end up feeling flat.

...I'm moderately appeased by what I've managed to produce for this chapter. Yet, still, I feel it's well below the standard I usually hold myself to. I've gone ahead and posted it for the sake of actually providing you all with an update (truly, you've all been so patient and brilliant) but I do apologise if it's not as great as you were hoping.

(Also, I know I had a few people offering to help me out with Spanish dialogue before. If any of you are still around the place and still up to give me a hand, then I'll need you for the next chapter so, let me know.)

Aiyta.