Ch 2 - Lucy

Sometimes no one will be your tower, and you

will have to be your shelter. That's a harsh reality to learn

as you grow up without a father. Not that he had passed

away or anything; on the contrary. The worst pain of

losing a father is when he is still alive and wants to be

lost. But Lucy had understood since she was a child that

she would have to fight alone and brave life with the

same bravery that the Polynesians had to discover

America thousands of years before. With such courage,

she faced her mother's death and did it alone, since her

father had become even more distant then, fleeing the

problem on expeditions to distant islands. Through the

window before her, she now observed all that she had

built up since then — a life surrounded by a campus.

And beneath the arms that held her frail face, two works

that showed her interest in the study — The Ego and the

ID and A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. The

boredom, however, was tangible. How was it possible

that even studying what she loved most — the human

mind — had become so dull? Sometimes she could not

explain her mind, which frustrated her deeply since this

was the very purpose of going to university in the first

place. Even that proved to be uninspiring — there was

still something missing, a raison d'être. She was soon

driven from these thoughts, though, by the now ringing

mobile phone, which she answered automatically, almost

without thinking, and with a tone still rough from sleep.

Lucy Lane introduced the conversation I had earlier

overheard in the lab room:

— Hello? — On the other end a hesitant voice

swallowed saliva, trying to find the right words. —

Hello? Who is it? — Lucy asked again.

— Lucy, it's me...

— Dad? — The surprise in her voice was the

result of years of absence from the figure who now

sought her out. After the loss of her mother, she had

become pretty close to the only adult her father knew at

the time — the man who funded Anthony Lane's

expeditions, Frederick Frost. Without letting Lane know

of Lucy's mother's death and without providing her

contact details to the authorities in force, the president

brought her to his home and took care of her, feeling

sorry for the child, as well as, of course, not wanting her

father to return before the end of the expedition. After

returning and learning of the tragedy, her father became

even more absorbed and dwelt on plans for future

voyages, leaving her emotionally helpless. And now he

would resurface as a white-haired phoenix? What could

be his interest?

— Do you need anything? — she asked in a cold,

almost ironic tone.

— Do I need something? What do you mean?

No! — answered her father, unable to understand the

sarcasm. — Actually... I called you because this might be

the most important trip we are going to make, we have a

solid report from a reliable witness. It's...it's the most

important moment of my life, Candy. I would like you to

accompany me.

Lucy was silent for a minute, digesting

everything she had heard. — So this is the most

important moment of your life? — she thought. — Even

my birth wasn't more important than a damn trip! He

hasn't changed a bit... — She took a deep breath and

returned:

— With all due respect, dad, you were never

around when I needed you; why do you expect me to act

any differently?

— I know, I know... I am aware of that. That is

precisely why I want to correct my mistake and I believe

that spending this time in your company will be rather

pleasant. We will do the initial planning at 6 am at my

place.

— You're still hunting unicorns, aren't you? Well,

have fun, I'm not going to chase illusions with you! —

Hearing the other side's breathing get faster, she knew

she had managed to hurt her father in his most sensitive

spot.

— They are not illusions, young lady. Remember

that perspective can affect reality and the fragments I

found are seen by many as real evidence. In fact, with

them, I have proven that the Tasmanian tiger is alive and

that it is just as real as the Tasmanian devil, and I hope

you have not forgotten my sighting as a child! I saw...

— Saw a quadrupedal animal, stout-looking and

red-skinned. With a long skull, a jowl that stretched out

from under its jaw, and tiny plates that covered its back.

Yeah, dad, no matter how hard I try to forget your

stories, they always come back to me in detail. But I also

remember that this "creature" of yours is much older

than the Tasmanian tiger.

— About 249 million years older, to be precise,

and the name is Erythrosuchus. But do you know what's

even older? Sharks and crocodiles. And if you watch

documentaries, you may have noticed that they are still

alive.

— Dad, why are we even talking? Listen, you are

not going to get what you never gave to others. — With

that last assertion, Lucy hung up in unison with Anthony

Lane. With her face buried in her hands, she was

tormented by the terrible guilt of treating her father as

harshly as he had treated her, and at the same time

sought to justify her attitude by his lack of love. Back in

the laboratory, I watched helplessly as my tutor wept

with his hands clutching his chest as if the emotional

pain had become physical. On my part, the feeling was

that my responsibility was to put out the flames of

already charred wood — there was little that could be

done. Eventually, he lifted his reddened and swollen face

and, averting his gaze so as not to face my eyes,

commanded me simply:

— Be at my house at 6 am without fail, Kevin.

— Yes, Dr. Lane; I'll be there. — Despite my

desire to hug him, I did not feel that the mood was

mutual. I turned away, therefore, and let him pass beside

me, walking heavily, despite being no more than the

husk of a human being. That appropriately dreary and

rainy evening, Lane stepped out into the street,

proceeding slowly toward his house, his hands in the

pockets of his wide social trousers, as he never wore an

overcoat but preferred a waistcoat whenever he was not

on stage. The cold rain was struggling to cool his face,

almost evaporating as soon as it touched its warm

surface and mixed with tears. His long hair, now

drenched, covered his eyes and required to be removed

at every turn, which he did only automatically, without

really looking around. As he approached home,

memories of many years before returned — ghosts of a

time when "the great opportunity'' to go on expeditions

had not yet been offered to him and, as if seeing

someone else's story, he saw his body transform. His

posture straightened and he felt himself filling with vigor

again. The only resemblance to what he would one day

be was the green waistcoat over his social shirt because

even his long hair was as dark a shade as the night.

Carrying bags and shopping packets, this younger,

healthier version of himself saw the laughing figure of a

merry child passing him by, shooting toward the low

gate. Also laughing, he said:

— Lucy, wait for me! — and sped to open the

gate covered with flowering branches of waxflower, not

realizing that it was bare of any beauty, covered now

only by rust, the sign left by long periods of absence. As

he opened the door and threw the groceries on the table,

he too threw himself into an armchair, watching the child

bring boxes and more boxes of toys to play at his feet.

With this beautiful sight, he fell asleep sitting in the also

aged armchair, uncomfortable and with the internal

structure broken, but never given away, as it was the

only piece that remained from that beautiful past.

⬫⬫⬫

Lucy was lying in her bed, taking advantage of

the only opportunity a campus gave anyone to think —

at night when everyone was finally silent. Her eyes

burned with the lack of sleep, but it was already obvious

that it wasn't coming, after all. From the dean, Frederick

Frost, she would hear frequent reports about Lane's

declining health, especially how it was getting harder for

him to walk. It was hard to imagine her father suffering

from his stubbornness and never even getting a phone

call or a visit, whether it was out of shame or whatever.

With how long he spent far from home, often for months

on end, they had rarely seen each other during her

childhood and adolescence, preferring to call on her

birthday and holidays. But what did those acts matter if,

for the rest of the year, he neither called nor was present?

And this was her sad saga, until one day he returned

home, only to find that she had already become an adult

and was in college. In her mind, all this seemed to

excuse her behavior perfectly, but for some reason, it all

seemed just that — an excuse. During those years, she

had learned to hate her father, then to cry, and finally to

just be indifferent. But she had also learned to be

decisive, so she decided to act differently, always being

there for her friends and anyone else who needed her.

This time it was her father who needed it, and even

though he didn't deserve it, he was going to see that she

was a far superior human being.

⬫⬫⬫

In the morning, I met with Dr. Keene, who was

already waiting for me outside the lab, so that we would

soon go to Lane's house to plan the details of the

expedition, which we always did in private places at

Keene's request. He, by the way, looked around as we

walked together through the streets, giving me the worst

feeling one can have. I felt like a contraband item, my

mere presence being a cause for such embarrassment to

that man. Before 6 we were knocking at the door of the

leader of our expedition, but without an answer for long

minutes. My companion walked around the house,

seeking a window through which to see if anything had

occurred. Since I regarded such snooping as

inappropriate, I remained on the veranda, waiting for his

return, even though my curiosity suggested that I

accompany him. Soon, however, I heard his call, in a

tone of complaint:

— What an absurd! Kevin, come see this!

I rushed to join in the intrusion, for now, there

was a valid reason for me to do so.

— So he tells us to wake up early and he's still

asleep? I swear he will pay! — continued Jacob Keene

vociferously. The sunbeams came peacefully through

Anthony Lane's window, revealing the interior of the

house, which could not be fully understood in the

darkness of the previous night. There was little, though,

to be understood, for the furniture and parts of the house

were of the least pleasing to look at. Everything there

reflected his fondness for old objects, but mostly, his

disregard for everything. Cobwebs and dust accumulated

on an old wooden horse, on the table, and even on the

blue armchair where our master now slept. It was almost

possible to see the same webs forming over Lane

himself. Running back to the door, Keene knocked

harder and repeatedly.

Inside, the delicate clouds of Lane's dream were slowly

fading and now he heard a sound that intensified over

time. So painful was it to hear the sound that he was

forced awake, with a little pressure on his chest. Looking

at the door, he identified the source of his distress —

someone was knocking, probably with a battering ram.

— Funny, — Lane said with a sigh. — I wasn't

expecting any Pachycephalosauruses today. — Still

yawning, he went to answer us; his knuckles cracking on

the way to the door. When it was finally opened for us,

we simply received a "good morning" without further

explanation. Still dismayed, but somewhat relieved to be

able to enter the house without being spotted by any of

the students, Keene protested:

— I'm afraid you've overslept, Dr. Lane. It is now

6:30. — The owner of the house, who then had his back

turned to us, turned slowly to the clock and then to

Keene and returned:

— Yes, but I was where we agreed to meet,

wasn't I? — I felt that next to me Keene was returning to

the same fury as before, but he had to control himself. I

couldn't help but laugh at Lane's mockery of such

unwarranted anger and, knowing his spirit, I was sure he

laughed too, as soon as he turned around again. — If

you'll excuse me — he began, leaning back in his

armchair and pointing out a dubiously trustworthy sofa

to us. We sat down carefully, fearing breaking the old

piece of furniture, and turned to our interlocutor; Keene,

beside me, having his arms crossed. The elderly scientist

continued:

— You see, yesterday I called my daughter and

told her about our expedition, but she didn't want to

know any more details. Maybe... I left too many marks

on her. Unfortunately, I think I got too depressed and

slept with a great deal of sadness in my heart. Even the

alarm clock couldn't wake me up this morning.

— I understand, Dr. Lane, but I expect a more

professional attitude from you — Keene replied.

— If by "professional" you mean cold and

unfeeling, Jacob, perhaps you should look for another

old man because I'm not like that — not anymore.

I silently watched this exchange of provocations

between the two, remembering the hospitality with

which that gentleman had treated me. From the stories I

had heard, I concluded that he had regretted the way he

had treated his daughter when she left home and the

reality hit him like a thunderbolt. I witnessed that it had

prompted him to improve internally, correct his mistakes,

and, if possible, make amends for the past. Now,

however, there was no hope in his eyes. His deep, always

half-closed eyes stared at the ground, without movement

or expression.

— Well then, — he said, finally raising his face

to us. — Let's get down to the details. As I have already

told you, we have been contacted by a witness who

claims to have spotted a cryptid on the island of

Ambungi. The description, which matches a mythical

being in local folklore, known as Kaiaimunu, also

matches the current view we have of some prehistoric

animals. Rereading the characteristics cited by Mr.

Muneipe, I have isolated a specific genus —

Deinocheirus. The shape of the body, the large claws, in

short - everything - matches what we know about these

creatures. Provisions can be purchased in Murien and

from home we will take only sleeping bags and tents.

— All right, then. We'll get started. — Lane then

closed his eyes, reciting the agenda for that week:

— We need the full mapping of Ambungi and the

islands near it, Amge and Alage. Try to get satellite

images, topographical maps, articles from previous

expeditions, in short...the whole thing.

— Yes, sir, — I replied, knowing that the order

was addressed to me, even if he wasn't looking at me.

— And I'll get the sleeping bags, — Keene

volunteered. — I understand that you also have to return

to the University to give one of your lectures. If those are

all the details, we can leave. Saying this, he attempted to

get up but dropped back on the sofa when he got no

response from his interlocutor.

Without saying anything, Lane got to his feet and

began to walk around his furniture, muttering an

incomprehensible litany. His movements seemed

intended not only to meditate on his difficulties but

mainly to delay us and prevent anything from happening;

his dismayed expression showed the anxiety he felt for

some reason unknown to us. He did not feel complete,

not while his conscience blamed him and made him

bleed inside. In his mind, Anthony Lane was even

considering canceling this trip, perhaps as a form of

self-flagellation, as a means of destroying this source of

happiness as well, and a figure was forming in his

thoughts, a form without a body that needed to be given

one.

Worried for the Doctor, I thought of saying

something and probably thought so too Jacob Keene,

though he had his left eyebrow raised in a sign of

disdain. Just then, we heard a soft but decisive knock on

the door, which brought Lane's ritual to a close after all.

Heading for the entrance, he still dragged his feet, but

did it so quickly, eager to answer the door, and slid it

open. As he had managed to hold us for a longer time,

Lane was rewarded with the materialization of his figure,

as if the door had become a portal to his mind. In a

trembling, almost indistinct voice, he called out:

— Lucy? Y-you've come!

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