Ch 12 - A Fresh Start

The alarm was going off for the fourth time this

morning, but I refused to get out of bed and face another

day...another empty day on an uninhabited campus. It

has been a few weeks since we arrived from Ambungi

and Amge, and I have not seen Lucy or Keene since. The

night we left the island, we crossed the waters between

the archipelago and reached the coast of New Britain

again, without being followed. We lost the herd deep in

the jungles but found Amge's survivors in the town of

Poi'iek — the first sign of civilization on the way. We

were discreet when we reached the city, not only because

we were outsiders, but also because we knew that, a few

meters away from the city limits, a whole pack of huge

animals had left their tracks. We were well received by

those who recognized us as those who had warned them

of the impending danger, and we were provided for that

night. In the morning Lucy and I awoke to the surprise

that Keene had spent the night conversing with the

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natives of Amge and Poi'iek, which shocked me more

than to learn that he spoke the Austronesian language of

those people, who had hitherto communicated with us

only in our own language. Jacob Keene was cheerful,

gesticulating as he listened and gave answers to what, he

later told us, were local legends about the huge creatures.

I could not conceive the idea that he was capable of

smiling. How could anyone have the courage to do this

right after we lost two loved ones and found a body?

Maybe Keene is a peculiar man. As for the two of us,

there was not a single spark of vibrancy around us; we

stood in the doorway of the hall where we encountered

the scene I have just described and gave him the same

disgusted look with which he condemned our bad table

manners. I still remember his laughter and see his face

now stamped on the ceiling where I project these

memories of days gone by. Here, lying in my bed, I

remember how easy it was for us to return to civilization,

because Dr. Keene used his title, his nativeness, and even

his language to impress many along the way until we

reached a stretch of more modern civilization where he

could actually draw money. I am afraid that many of

these poor men will never be paid. As you may have

noticed, we avoided Murien, because we had lost

Muinepe's speedboat, and our new caretaker was afraid

that the owner would now keep his promise to beat him

up. When we finally arrived in Kimbe and bought

tickets, the feeling was still one of numbness, as if the

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whole trip had been a dream and we would meet Lane

when we opened our eyes in America. This was not the

case.

I finally got up from my comfortable bed, not

without effort, and took a few moments to admire the

studio next to my tiny room. There were still splashes of

yellow from a certain painting I had been doing near

Lane's samples, which had resulted in the small disaster

that lay before me. To this day I remember his horrified

expression. He still had an expression back then. If the

paint was removed, it would leave a cleanup stain,

because, all around it, the dust covered our samples in

thick layers, much more demeaning than my modest

splashes of paint. In any case, these samples would

probably be taken elsewhere now, since there was no one

left to run the lab and to label those large jars and boxes

that would never be opened. In fact, I had not even been

told where all this material was going — perhaps to

some other aspiring cryptozoologist or to Frederick Frost

himself, if he had any interest at all.

As soon as one left the laboratory, one found a

large building in which the lectures were held, and,

passing behind the curtains that guarded its back, I found

myself on the stage where the end had begun. As I

formulated the mental picture of Anthony Lane standing

there, giving a speech to a huge bored audience, the

creaking of the wood under my feet was a great surprise

— I realized now that I had never been on the stage, only

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in the seats before it. I had never once been the center of

attention; I had always just paid attention. Lane was no

longer there, not because he wanted, but he still wasn't

— I was. Lucy and I were, and would become just as

important as our father had been. I took a step forward

then, harder this time. The wood did not make the same

dull noise as before; it adjusted to its supports. I took a

few more steps with the same weight exerted. Nothing.

Silence. I remembered that I did not hear creaks when

Lane walked across this stage, which shows that he also

had to make an effort to exert pressure while walking so

that the unnecessary noise would not distract the

attention of the audience. God, it seems that it takes

self-control to be the center of attention, really. Maybe a

little selfishness, too? Now, someone has to be the center

of attention, otherwise, how will there be leadership and

order? But I don't want that for myself. I know someone

who knows how to exercise her leadership with candor

and respect; maybe I should go visit her.

As I reasoned, I realized that for some time now

there had been a faint creaking sound in the back of my

mind. As I walked around the stage, stepping heavily

and snapping my fingers to try all sorts of ways to attract

attention, I failed to notice that there was a man on the

same stage, standing still, moving just his foot — just

enough to cause the discreet noise and get my attention

without being abrupt. I immediately pulled myself

together from my...eccentric manners, shall we say.

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— Good morning, Mr. O'Riley, — said the dean's

assistant. — Mr. O'Riley? How old does this gentleman

estimate me to be? — I thought to myself. Not

expressing verbally what my face had no doubt already

expressed, I answered him:

— Good morning, Mr...?

— Allard; Nathan Allard, — the fellow returned.

With his hair neatly combed to the right and wearing a

suit and sunglasses, the man seemed to force the image

of a bodyguard, despite his short stature and the voice

that suddenly became high-pitched when he did not

moderate it. Continued the bouncer:

— President Frost left today on a trip to Africa

and has asked that I give you this card, which belongs to

a truck driver who is due to arrive around 10 to pick up

the samples from the lab. He also asked you to help him

load the vehicle.

— Certainly, — I replied, taking the card that

was offered to me. At my thanks, the little man took his

leave with a dramatic nod of his head and left the stage

with steps longer than his legs would normally take. The

headache I was already feeling from all the recent events

was now about to increase with the orders he had just

given me. With a despondent sigh, I looked through a

huge window at the lab across the road that crossed the

campus and back at the yellowed card. Dave Young /

Heavy transport, the bold cardboard fragment read.

Putting it in my pants pocket, I mentally prepared myself

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for the big job ahead. It was unusual for me to have any

documents or belongings in my low pockets, but after

tearing my flannel to light the torch in Ambungi, I wasn't

left with many options. Returning to the lab, I stopped in

my tracks and remembered that there was a garden

adjoining the east wall, and in the center, among

geraniums and jasmines, a pile of never-spread stones.

Another prickle in my heart as I remembered who had

planted it. I finally entered and concentrated my thoughts

on the samples I had to remove and take to the west gate,

through which the large vehicles usually entered. Perfect

plan, if only Allard or Frost had warned this Young guy

which gate he should use. By the way, why does the

president of a university need an assistant? Whenever I

saw that fellow acting, his "action" comprised delivering

errands from old Frost. It sounded more like an

opportunity to have someone to boss around.

Carrying the heavy loads alone, I entertained my

mind with these questions, mainly to take my focus off

the pain caused by the excessive weight. After what

seemed like an eternity of going back and forth from the

lab to the gate, I let myself fall among the samples.

There, among bones, teeth, and shells, I felt the full force

of nostalgia. All around me lay the work of a lifetime, a

fraction of which I had followed closely. The memory of

our adventures together and how much I missed him

now brought back the desire to cry. I also remembered

that I had not yet had time to bathe that day. Baths, after

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all, are great occasions to cry and let the water carry

away your tears and the accompanying hormones of

sadness. With a quick glance at the clock, I realized that

there were 15 minutes left before the appointed time,

which was more than enough. I then abandoned the

dusty samples and went to fulfill my hygiene

commitment.

As I was leaving the laboratory bathroom, I heard

the deafening horns of an approaching truck. As no one

answered his calls, the truck driver insisted on what was

already a commotion. I hurried to reach the west gate

before someone called the police and found the young

man still inside the cab, honking his horn.

— Hey, buddy! — I shouted, trying to sound

louder than the horn, but to no avail. Without hearing

me, he continued his uncontrolled obsession until I hit

his window. Surprised by the movement next to his face,

he finally noticed my presence and opened the door.

— Hey, you must be Kevin, huh? Old Frost said

you would help me load the truck, — said the smiling

face. Looking at Young's face, it seemed a bit absurd that

Frost would want my assistance in the endeavor — the

man was as young as I was. In any case, there was work

to be done, and I would not stand still just because

something did not make sense. Little was heard during

the process of loading the samples, apart perhaps from

the occasional grunt that Young produced when making

the simple effort of lifting a box. Within minutes, we had

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completed the strenuous operation and were entering the

cabin. Once seated in the passenger seat, it was easier to

engage in trivial conversation:

— So where are we taking this cargo? — I asked

naturally.

— What? You don't know either? Frost said that

he wrote the address on the card he sent you.

— On the card? — I asked, already rummaging

through my pockets. Picking it up, I found a hastily

written message on the back. It read:

Even though you are a Newby, I'm sure you will

be able to get this cargo to the first place to be spotted.

Right after it, was the scribble of an address

where to deliver the valuable cargo. Being called a

newbie is mildly offensive, but frankly, it shouldn't be,

since I had no connections with the president. Following

the indicated address, we drove along US-1, until we

spotted the ordered location — a small wooden and

concrete house. Parking in front of the residence, we

checked the number again to make sure, and as I opened

the door to get out of the truck and go call the owners, I

was stopped by the sound of Dave Young's horn cutting

through the air like thunder.

— You think they heard it? — asked Young with

an irritatingly naive expression.

— You bet, — I replied, with my hands on my

ears.

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All around us, the windows on the street began to

open randomly, with faces coming out of each one, some

with an expression of curiosity, others of anger. At the

house where we were supposed to deliver the samples,

finally, the window opened too, after all the others. To

my surprise, I recognized the face that appeared in it, and

it made sense of the president's decision that the samples

be brought there.

— Lucy? — I asked in an audible tone. Leaving

the cabin, I approached the house, whose window was

already empty again. The door opened with a bang and

Lucy Lane came running up and threw herself at me,

without saying a word. I was still a bit stunned that we

had been brought together again by something so

random, but I managed to respond to the tight hug she

was giving me.

— I'm glad you came, Kevin, — she said into my

chest, not releasing me from her arms. At that very

moment, I understood that she had the same feelings that

I felt. We were both lost, in a new position, with a

different responsibility. At last, we could help each other

and perhaps revive the legacy of Anthony Lane. The

legacy? Of course, this is what I had come for. Still

hugging her, I murmured:

— Er...the cargo in this truck...Frost told us to

bring it to you. — Letting go, after all, she raised an

eyebrow, asking the nature of the cargo's contents. Not to

respond orally either, I made a quick gesture with my

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hand, inviting her to follow me, and opened the trailer

doors to reveal its contents.

— Lab supplies? — she asked, tilting her head to

the right.

— Why, yes. All the results of the expeditions,

and you are the heir to it all.

— Wow, — she said in a vaguely ironic tone, —

shouldn't there be an auction of the objects or

something?

— Not without first going through the one person

who has the legal right to them.

— Yeah, that makes sense. Well, I'll find a way to

arrange all this in my house. I'm afraid that's my father's

entire legacy.

— Hey, guys, — sounded a voice from the other

side of the truck. — Well, you must be the deceased

man's daughter, right? It's a huge pleasure!

— Er... likewise, — Lucy answered with some

reluctance to Dave's question.

— So... Dave, shall we roll up our sleeves? — I

cut in subtly to end the awkward silence he had caused.

Despite the lack of sense, I cannot criticize the

work force of my talkative friend, for within half an hour

the three of us had finished, storing the samples in an

inconspicuous room whose door opened under the

staircase, revealing a larger space behind a wall with no

openings. Once we had finished the service, we said

goodbye to the driver whom someone might call

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"friendly" and went inside again for lunch. I then

scoured the surroundings for the one thing that might

matter in a house — a library. To my dismay, all I found

was a shelf, which did not even hold a large collection of

books. On it, which was nothing more than a simple

planked board, rested heavy hardcover books. As I

approached, I noticed that they were psychology books,

and I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. Certainly, the study

of the human mind is something extremely complex, but

I leave it to anyone who is interested in talking about

addictions and desires. At the other extreme are those

who, like me, find animals much more interesting than

our dramatic species. Finally, I sighed in dismay and

turned away from the shelf, turning to Lucy and asking if

she would allow me to cook lunch. She then gave me a

curious look, as if it was strange that I wanted to cook. I

had felt repulsion towards men for noticing their sexism

before, I hoped this was not the case. Permitting me,

after all, she plopped herself down in the armchair she

kept centrally in the room; one of the huge books

adorning her lap. I believe it was a rare occasion for her

to rest like this.

The huge quantity of potatoes that for some

reason she kept in the pantry reminded me of the recipe

for a colcannon, which, by the way, would give me time

to think while the potatoes boiled and the scallions

blanched. My mind turned to the peculiar message on

Dave Young's faded card. Why was it so formal and

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strange? The first place to be spotted? I am no pirate to

be given that kind of command. I realized then that I had

a frown on my forehead and took the focus off those

problems — there is no point in building a bridge that

you will not pass over. I finished making some mashed

potato, mixed the scallions and the seasoning, and

brought it to the table right away. Lucy stirred the puree

with her fork before finally tasting it.

— But this is amazing, — she said with her

mouth full, — I'm glad you wanted to cook.

— Come on, I'm sure you're a good chef. This is

a very special dish; it's Dr. Lane's favorite… — I paused

my sentence as I remembered this fact, and we both

dropped our cutlery. My carefully prepared dish looked

paler and less appetizing now, and we let our eyes drift

away from it to look at the floor and remember the time

when the man I saw as a father, and from whom Lucy

descended, was still making his discoveries. The first

person to treat me with respect when I arrived in

America and now I was supposed to deal with this

inferior type of human being who called me a...newbie?

Enraged upon remembering the fact, I pulled Young's

card from my pocket and glared at that message, perhaps

thinking that it would suffer combustion with the sheer

force of my mind.

— What is this? — Lucy asked, raising her eyes

to witness my controlled rage.

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— A message that Frost sent me via his truck

driver, Dave Young. And in it, he calls me a newbie! A

newbie, you see! — I complained, shaking one fist as I

handed her the card with the other hand.

— Hmm, that's strange.

— What's strange?

— He misspelled the word newbie. Look how it

is spelled — Newby — with a capital N and without the

E at the end.

Receiving the card back from her hands, I

noticed that she was right, in fact — the word had been

spelled that way. What a curious fact indeed... Frederick

Frost, the man who had hosted the New Havens Spelling

Contest more than once, had committed the heinous

crime of misspelling a word? No, there had to be another

explanation for the fact; one that made some sense. The

first place to be spotted...the first place…

I lifted my head suddenly, having understood the

fact, after all. My cell phone had been left in my room

again; since there wasn't much use for it in the remote

places our expeditions took us, I never had the

opportunity to become a sedentary addict like other

young people, but now I saw the need to have it around.

— May I use your cell phone? — I asked,

probably still with the maniacal expression of someone

who had just had an idea, judging by the look Lucy gave

me.

— Sure, — she said slowly, with a wary smile.

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With the handset in hand and having typed in the

number, a few seconds passed before I heard the always

cheerful voice of Dave Young, introducing his slogan:

— Young heavy haulage — if it fits, we'll take it!

— Afternoon, Dave, it's Kevin. Any chance you

have the number that President Frost used to call you?

— Well, hello there, partner! I'm sorry, I've

already lost the old man's contact among so many

callers; but even if I still had it, I don't think it would be

very useful. The stooge, that Allard guy, said that he

wouldn't answer anyone where he was going.

— And why not?

— Well, although I didn't ask for an explanation,

he said that the dean wanted to have some time for

himself. Strange thing to say to a guy you are just hiring

to transport trinkets, isn't it? — I didn't answer, nor did I

pay any attention to the offense that was the question

itself; I just thanked him and said goodbye.

— Why this sudden interest in the president? —

asked Lucy with a raised eyebrow.

— Because he didn't misspell the word...and that

cargo wasn't supposed to be brought here.