Short story: Cassandra's Cargo by DJ Cockburn

George Harding lay in his hammock and closed his eyes. He knew that the gloomy room he found himself in was a delusion of the malaria that chilled his blood, but it felt so real he could smell the bodies pressed against his.

Boots echoed on stone and stopped beside him. Rough hands pulled manacles off his ankles and hauled him to his feet. His legs quivered as though unused to carrying him, which was a familiar sensation because George Harding's flaccid muscles often protested at his weight. He looked down to see not the pale paunch that he was accustomed to, but the contours of a muscular African half his age. His head recoiled upward. The rows of prone Africans that he had been pulled out of stretched into the gloom. The sight drove out all thought of a comfortable hammock because he simply couldn't imagine the terror screaming through him.

He wrenched an arm free and drove his elbow into a face, his fist into another, and the hands holding him slackened just enough. Shouts chased him into the gloom, but he was already at a wall at the end of the rows of bodies. A ladder gave him the choice of up or down. He climbed up for no reason that he could name.

Another wall in front of him. He turned and ran between more rows of chained men. A man in trousers swung a staff at him. It was aimed at his face and the joy of ducking under it and hurling the man to the floor was as real as the terror that flung him at the next ladder. There was light shining above it. The light of the sun. The light of hope that caressed his shoulders as he climbed and dazzled his eyes so that he did not see what hit his head and dashed him back to the floor below.

He had no doubt that the boots thudding around him were real, and so was the burning pain they crunched into him. He wrapped his arms around his head, not to protect himself so much as to hide from the nightmare that consumed him. The kicks stopped and it took him a moment to recall the shout that had stopped them. His arms were wrenched away from his head, and he found himself looking upon the most blessed sight he could have dreamed.

A white man.

A white man, who had the authority to give orders. An angelic sight from his tattered shoes to his yellow teeth. The appraising look in the man's eyes belonged less to an angel than to a farmer sizing up cattle at a market. The angel barked an order in a language that George Harding felt he should understand but didn't. Iron fingers prized his mouth open and the angel rolled back his lips and nodded approvingly.

No rescue would come from this man. Manacles clamped George Harding's ankles again, and he was bundled down several ladders to be dragged back into the light. He was not even surprised to find himself shoved into a line of similarly manacled and naked Africans, shuffling out of the fort toward the masts of a ship. Knowing there would be no rescue did not stop him shouting "I am George Harding" over and over again, but his mouth would not form the words so nobody listened.

* * * *

"Bugger."

George Harding heard his own voice with relief. There were no manacles, no ships, and his hand was still white and plump when he managed to focus his eyes on it. He was still George Harding, His Britannic Majesty's agent in Bathurst. Still trying not to die of malaria before somebody in Whitehall remembered to give him a pension. His worst tribulation was not that he had been sold into slavery, but the salty taste that told him his throbbing gums were bleeding again. He tried not to think about how much he had paid that surgeon for his new set of teeth, and concentrated on thinking about what he would do to the man with his own tooth extractors when he next saw London. They hurt more than the rotten set they replaced.

He swung himself out of his hammock and yelped at a stab of protest from his ankles. It was only gout, not manacles. Stupid thought. He pulled off his clammy shirt and flung it on the floor for the houseboy to pick up. He opened the drinks cabinet and found a bottle of brandy and a glass. The malaria surprised him with a last tremor, splashing the brandy over the papers strewn across his desk. "Bugger."

He opened another bottle and measured out fifty drops of laudanum. His head stopped spinning, and he could even read the label on the bottle. He could also see how little was left in it, and he formed an almost coherent prayer that the mail packet would arrive soon. The replenishment of laudanum would more than make up for the lack of mail.

He drank brandy from the bottle and grimaced when it was so hot it almost burned his tongue, but it was worth it for the calm that it brought. He'd feel up to looking at some paperwork in a minute.

"Please Massa!" Harding turned round to see the middle-aged houseboy in the doorway. Harding grunted.

"Boat come, Massa."

"Boat? What boat? Packet's not due for another week and the buggers are always late."

The boy's forehead furrowed. "Boat come, Massa."

Why couldn't someone teach these buggers to speak the King's English? Then again, Harding was uncertain that King George himself could understand him through these teeth, whichever King George it was that wore the silk stockings at the moment. He elbowed past the houseboy and stepped outside. The sun flayed at his bare back, and added its share of discomfort to the steam bath of Bathurst in October. The tangle of mangrove surrounded what his documents of appointment called his 'residence' and the garrison officers called 'Harding's Hovel', except where the liquid mud of the River Gambia provided the anchorage that got the navy excited about the place. Then they needed a battery and a dockyard and a poor bloody acting-governor to make sure the Union Jack went up and down the pole every day. Too much to expect the Navy to think about the miasma that would rise up from the swamp and give the poor bloody acting-governor three bouts of malaria for every hoist of the flag.

"Typical bloody Navy," he muttered to himself, as he waddled to the edge of the river.

The boy was wrong. There was not a boat coming in, but two ships. The first was a three-master with the narrow sails of a merchantman. He saw the name Cassandra embossed on her stern as she hove to. The second was coming round Banjul Point, and the rake of her two masts identified her as a man-of-war long before Harding made out the White Ensign. The merchantman was wearing the same ensign, which Harding could not understand until he realized that the smell assailing his nostrils was far more acrid than the usual stink of the swamp. There was only one sort of ship that smelled like that and only one reason why it would be coming into a British port with a Royal Navy flag at her mast. Some busybody had caught a slaver, which would mean that the smell was only the first sighting of a fleet of vexations bearing down on him.

A third vessel appeared from behind the merchantman, under every sail that her single mast could carry. She flew the Fleur-de-Lys of France, which told Harding that his papers would be waiting a little longer. "Bugger."

He trudged back to the residence to throw some water over himself and find a shirt. Wouldn't do to meet whoever was in that cutter without one, even if it was probably some frog pirate.

Armand de Valois's neat frock coat and powdered queue would not have looked out of place in the Tuileries, and Harding wondered how he could look so well groomed when he must have been at sea for weeks in that little cutter. Harding had met de Valois a few times and knew that he made his first fortune from his privateers, which he'd converted into slavers when Bonaparte's exile brought peace. He decided he had been right to expect a frog pirate.

Harding was pleased with his own appearance as he pushed himself to his feet against his desk. He hoped that his uncombed hair and bloodshot eyes would pierce the dapper Frenchman's veneer, but de Valois's smile lost none of its charm as he wrung Harding's hand. "Ah, Governor 'Arding, it is an honor to meet you again."

"Your servant," grunted Harding. He was not a governor because Bathurst was not a colony in its own right, but de Valois could call him one if he pleased. He made the title sound so apt that Harding even forgot to be irritated by the consonant de Valois's accent deducted from his name.

Harding waved a hand at a chair. De Valois settled into the sagging wickerwork as though it was an emperor's throne.

Diplomatic etiquette dictated that Harding, as the host, should open the conversation. Bugger diplomatic etiquette. He glowered at de Valois, who smiled politely back. Harding allowed his eyelids to droop, as though he were falling asleep. De Valois raised his chin with an expression of sudden interest. "Forgive me, Governor 'Arding, but I cannot help but observe your very fine teeth. Surely those dentures must be ivory?"

Last time Harding had seen de Valois, he had still had the rotten remains of the teeth nature gave him, which had not been very pleasant for either him or anyone facing him. Now he had a set that would be as fine as any in London society, if only they had not cost so much that he had been forced to accept a posting nobody else would take to pay them off.

"Not ivory," he said. "Genuine Waterloo teeth."

"Excuse me?"

"Waterloo. The battle. When we sent the crapauds packing." Harding could not resist trying to provoke the Frenchman, but de Valois just nodded with the perfect blend of interest and deference. The man was insufferable.

"I needed new teeth but I didn't want them from some bugger who'd been scraped out of the gutter when he'd died of the French disease. These came from a soldier killed at Waterloo. Proper English teeth, these."

De Valois nodded again. The man was impervious to insult. Whatever he wanted, he wanted it badly.

"I 'ear Waterloo teeth are the talk of London. I congratulate you on acquiring a set," said de Valois. Harding noted de Valois had not known what Waterloo teeth were when he thought describing them would appeal to Harding's self-importance. He grunted to avoid having to say anything polite.

"Governor 'Arding, may I come straight to the point?" said de Valois, now that he had prevaricated for five minutes. Harding grunted again.

"I fear there has been a grave misunderstanding, and I came here aboard my own yacht to rectify it. I am afraid that it may even threaten the peace that your nation and the United States of America have enjoyed these three years."

Harding raised his eyebrows. "The United States?"

A crash shook the bungalow and Harding nearly fell out of his chair. His skull had barely stopped ringing when it echoed with a second crash, and he recognized it as the man-of-war announcing her arrival with a salute. Couldn't the bloody Navy do anything quietly?

The two men regarded each other as the cannonade rolled over Bathurst, de Valois with his polite smile and Harding wincing as the explosions rattled his teeth.

"As I was saying," said de Valois after the last sledge-hammer blow to Harding's mind, "a grave incident has occurred. The captain of that man-of-war has, with intentions that were no doubt excellent, unlawfully seized a merchant ship of the United States."

"You mean that slaver?"

"It is true that the ship was carrying a cargo that your government would not approve of…"

"Slaves?"

"But as I said, there has been a terrible misunderstanding. Governor 'Arding, we are men of the world and I need not tell you how the best of reasons may seduce a young man into error. The captain of that man-of-war would no doubt have distinguished himself at Trafalgar, but several days ago, his zeal led him to seize that ship in the belief that she was a Frenchman, when in fact she wears the flag of the United States."

De Valois was talking fast and no wonder, thought Harding. The salute announced that the man-of-war had dropped her anchor and her captain was probably stepping into a boat at this very moment. "I presume we're talking about one of your own slavers?"

De Valois gave a look of such mortification that Harding would have had to stifle a laugh if his teeth had not hurt so much. "No, of course not. My ships are registered in France and so the Royal Navy would have every right to seize them if they found slaves aboard, which of course they would not."

"Because France signed the Treaty of Vienna after we got Boney where he couldn't do any more damage."

Harding could not resist the opportunity to rub salt into a wound that must still be fresh.

De Valois showed no sign of bleeding. "Indeed. I was pursuing my entirely legitimate trading interests when I became aware of your countryman's mistake. Naturally, I came here as fast as I could because it is the plain duty of men of good sense, such as ourselves, to avert the consequences of such a misunderstanding. It does, after all, amount to an act of war against the United States and I am sure we can agree that neither of us wants to see the Royal Navy lose any more frigates. "

Harding hid his satisfaction. He must have nettled the frog if he felt the need to mention the poor performance of the Royal Navy against the Americans. De Valois could not know how much Harding detested the Royal Navy. "Your point, Monsieur?"

"I have no doubt that your good sense will prevail when the captain presents his log book, which will presumably say that the ship was wearing a French flag when she was sighted. I assure you that he will be mistaken, which I will prove in time. It is easy to make a mistake when it is dawn and you are looking through a telescope..." de Valois spread his hands in a disgustingly Gallic expression of helplessness.

Tongue enough for two sets of teeth, thought Harding. He scratched his crotch. "What's your proof?"

"You 'ave my word that I will provide it in time. The problem is that we do not have time. The cargo of the ship that has been seized is, shall we say, perishable? It will lose much of its value while we send for the documentation. I entreat you to take my word and release that ship immediately."

"Your word?" Harding didn't try to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"The word of a Frenchman. Naturally, I appreciate that there are certain expenses involved. There are five hundred gold guineas aboard my yacht, and I will gladly place them at your disposal to avert the crisis."

Harding's eyes snapped open. He could pay off his teeth and return to London with five hundred guineas, and the hell with the service. It was not difficult to guess what had happened. De Valois had been using the cutter to make arrangements before he committed the larger merchantman to an anchorage that would leave it trapped by a navy patrol, and he could not be arrested because his yacht carried no slaves. The captain of the slaver had thrown all evidence of French registration over the side before she was taken and de Valois was willing to spend some of his capital to preserve his cargo and his ship.

Harding assumed a contemplative frown. Who really cared where the slaver was registered? Ten years ago, Harding's duty would have been to welcome a slaver as an honored guest and assist him with his legal trade, and damned if he'd see five hundred gold guineas for his trouble. Unfortunate for the slaves of course, but then nobody ever asked Harding if he'd wanted to go to Bathurst.

But he'd never breached his trust before. The odd grease for certain administrative wheels was one thing, but to pretend a French ship was American was something else. Then again, how much was a flag worth in the balance with five hundred gold guineas? He winced as his teeth started throbbing again. "I'll think about it."

He stood up to end the interview, and de Valois stood with him and extended his hand. Etiquette demanded that Harding should offer de Valois a room in the residence, but de Valois said that he would be aboard his cutter before Harding got the chance to pointedly withhold an invitation. He saw de Valois to the door and watched him stroll back to the wharf, as though he were ambling down the Champs Elysée instead of through the ankle-deep mud of Bathurst.

A flock of brown birds burred over his head and landed in a tree. Ha-ha-ha-ha, they babbled. A bomb of fury exploded in Harding's breast. They were laughing at him!

He dashed back to his desk and pulled a pistol out of a drawer. Tears of rage blurred his sight and his shaking hands scattered more powder over his desk than he got into the pan, but eventually he got it loaded and dashed outside. He pointed it at the tree, but the birds had gone.

The pistol sank back to his side, and he waited for his breathing to slow down and his jaw to stop quivering. A chill marched up his spine. Surely he couldn't be about to have another bout of fever so soon after the last one? "Bugger."

* * * *

George Harding was running. He didn't know where he was or where he was going, but the barking dogs behind him left him in no doubt of what he was running from. Branches whipped out of the night and slashed across his body. There was no help for it except keep running on his shredded feet, turning every aching breath of fetid air into a few more paces between him and the plantation.

Plantation?

The question stirred a dispassionate part of his mind. Fever had brought strange visions before, especially since he had discovered how quickly laudanum helped him to recover from them, but they had never been more than disconnected impressions. Now he knew that he was in Jamaica, running from a sugar plantation, far more clearly than he knew that he was shivering in a hammock in Bathurst. He even knew he had had hit a slave-driver, and would be flogged to death if he stopped running.

His legs plunged into warm mud, and he got a mouthful of foul water from a creek he had not seen. He could not see the other side, so he had no chance of swimming to it before the dogs led their handlers to the bank.

There was a light on the water. He blinked mud out of his eyes. It was a fishing lantern in a boat, no more than a stone's throw away. He threw himself forward and swam. He expected the boatman to row away from a fugitive, but the man just watched him approach. He placed his hand on the gunwale, and hands of the same dark shade hauled him over it, pushed him down in the bow and motioned him to silence. He struggled to stifle the breaths tearing at his chest. The sounds of the dogs were no longer muffled by undergrowth, so they had found the place where he fell into the water. He had only seen one boat, so there was only one place where he could be. He closed his eyes and commended his soul to Allah to do with it as He would.

Where had that idea come from? The dispassionate part of George Harding's mind reasserted itself. He was a Presbyterian, damn it! Even if he'd almost forgotten what churches look like from the inside, he didn't go around commending his soul to Allah. He still cowered in the boat when he heard a slave-catcher's voice calling to the boatman.

"I no see 'um, Massa," said the boatman.

Harding had never been to the West Indies, let alone run away from a plantation. All he really knew, as he lay there biting his fist to keep from gagging on the salt clinging to the back of his mouth, was that he wanted the slave-driver to believe the boatman more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

The boatman said "I no see 'um, Massa" again. This time, the only answer was splashing and curses. There was a gentle creaking and rocking. Whether or not George Harding had been to the West Indies, he had no qualms in silently giving thanks to Allah when he realized the boatman was rowing away while the slave catchers searched the bank. He even savored the pain of his scratches, because noticing them meant that he was no longer running for his life.

The rowing stopped. The change of motion reminded him of the thanks he owed the boatman. He opened his eyes just in time to see an oar slashing toward him. A flash of light, then darkness.

Darkness was an improvement on dogs. Hopefully, it meant that he was coming out of the fever. He could not endure many more dreams like this. He would have to increase the dose of laudanum.

A sensation of cold seized him as though in a claw, and he writhed in a pool of water on a dirt floor. His head felt as if there was an axe in it, and a scythe-fingered demon wrung out his guts until he vomited.

"Ah Christ!"

He looked up to see a man wearing the red coat of the men who carried long guns, and the three stripes on the sleeve belonged to someone who shouted a lot rather than someone who was usually shouted at. The empty bucket in the man's fist told him where the water had come from.

"You'll clean that up if I have to make you lick it up," said the man in a language that George Harding recognized as English. It sounded strange, as though it was a language that he had recently learned.

"Now get up off that floor, Lord Sambo! You ain't the colonel's daughter so you ain't gonna lie there all day."

He could not find a grain of strength in his body, but he still got to his feet when the red man started toward him. Somehow, he had learned what happened when he did not do what men who spoke English told him to.

"That's better. Now come 'ere." The red man waved at a window. More red men stood in lines, with straight backs and their hands straight down by their sides. They stared at a man tied to a wooden triangle while another man whipped him. George Harding had seen many floggings, but his astonishment almost overcame his nausea when he saw that what was left of the skin of the flogged man was white.

"See that, Lord Sambo?" barked the red man into his ear. "Now I don't give five minutes with a poxed sailor's whore what you done. The army paid good money for you, so you do what I tell you and no one will want to know. But you give me any trouble, an' you know how you'll end up, an' I promise you you'll give your black arse to get back wherever you run away from. Now fall in, Private Sambo!"

* * * *

Harding was unsure whether his teeth or his ankles hurt more when he lurched out of the hammock. A hundred drops of laudanum helped, and so did what was left of the brandy. He fingered another bottle, thinking that he should delay opening it in case he ran out before the mail packet arrived, but he knew it would be empty by dawn tomorrow.

"Please Massa?"

Harding didn't take his eyes off the bottle. "Yes boy?"

"Blue-blue man come, Massa."

"Blue-blue man? What the devil d'you mean...oh!" A man in the blue coat of a naval officer was standing behind the houseboy. The officer's fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword. He looked every inch the sort of fighting captain that England had been so besotted with since Nelson toadied his way into that tomb in St. Paul's. Harding disliked him on sight.

"Come in." Harding sank into the chair behind his desk without offering to shake hands.

The officer stepped into the room and removed his hat. "Matthew Cooper, Master and Commander of His Britannic Majesty's brig-sloop Electra, at your service sir."

Not only was he bloody navy, he was a bloody Yorkshireman. Harding raised an eyebrow. "George Harding at yours."

The houseboy scurried in to retrieve the latest shirt that Harding had thrown on the floor. If a succession of dandies insisted on inflicting themselves on him, he could at least make them feel overdressed.

Harding made no move to invite Cooper to sit down, hoping to force him into the gaffe of sitting uninvited. Cooper seemed happy for his broad shoulders to loom over Harding. Harding wanted to pretend to fall asleep, but he could not stop himself looking up at eyes that should have belonged to a leopard deciding whether a mouse was worth the effort of pouncing on.

"Been waiting long?" Harding could play the game no longer.

"About half an hour." Cooper's tone added that it had been half an hour too long.

"Touch of fever." Harding heard the conciliation in his own voice and disliked Cooper even more.

Cooper glanced at the brandy-stained papers and spilt powder on Harding's desk. "I see."

"Won't you sit down, Commander?" A commander carried the courtesy title of captain, and Harding smiled inwardly when Cooper's eyes narrowed with irritation.

"I prefer to stand, sir. May I come straight to the point?"

Harding waved a hand expansively.

"Five days ago, we found that abomination slipping out of the Akokra River." Cooper jerked his head at the wall that hid the Cassandra. "We chased her for three days and it's taken two to get here. The poor souls aboard are starving and some of them already have fever. I request permission to land them immediately, and send them proper food and a surgeon."

Harding hid a smile. Cooper had handed him the perfect excuse to refuse. Best not to say so straight away, especially when he could irritate the man. "You've unchained the poor souls of course?"

Cooper looked satisfyingly uncomfortable. "Well no, of course not..."

Harding raised his eyebrows. "Why on earth not? What the devil do you mean by keeping your poor souls in chains?"

Cooper's knuckles were white as he crumpled his hat. "I couldn't. There are scores of them and they don't know the difference between us and the slavers. They'd tear us apart..."

"How can I explain to them that you rescued them by keeping them in chains?" Now would be a good time to get up and stroll to the window, but Harding was afraid he would pass out if he tried. Not that it really mattered because the anguish in Cooper's eyes showed Harding that he had won the point. Five hundred guineas, he thought.

"I can't land them if they've got fever. Half the garrison is sick as it is, without a new contagion in the middle of Bathurst."

Cooper looked as though he'd been struck. "Sir, five hundred souls are in your hands. I demand that you write an order to land them immediately!"

Harding sighed and folded his hands across his stomach, trying to assume the image of the wisdom of age faced with impetuous youth. He hoped Cooper did not notice the empty bottle rolling on the floor. He stared at the epaulette on Cooper's shoulder, where the veneer of gold had worn off to expose the lead beneath and reveal that Cooper was not a wealthy man. "You fellows get prize money for taking blackbirders, don't you? Quite a lot for a beauty like that, I'd say."

"Prize money be damned!"

Harding cringed back.

"You may throw my share of the prize money into the sea for all I care," barked Cooper, "but I'll not see those poor wretches suffer more than they already have for want of a few strokes of your pen!"

Harding found his voice. "You an abolitionist, Commander?"

Cooper stepped back, pitifully easy to confuse. "Proud to be. What's that got to do with it?"

"You may see it as your duty to chase slavers, but I'd like to remind you that you're a King's officer." The force he put into those last words recoiled into his molars, and he closed his eyes while the pain receded. "While you wear that uniform, you'll remember your oath to the King, which unless I'm very much mistaken, does not include decimating any of his outposts by filling them full of fever."

Cooper turned a delightful shade of red. He looked ready to tear his hat in half. Harding pushed on relentlessly. "Whatever your politics, Commander, no man can serve two masters. Good day to you."

Harding fidgeted with some papers on his desk, trying to get rid of Cooper before he calmed down enough to form an argument. Cooper turned on his heel and walked out. Pity the next defaulter on his ship.

Harding leaned back. Five hundred gold guineas, and a cottage in...Devon? Dorset? Maybe not a cottage, he would be able to afford an inn, which would provide him with as much brandy as he could drink. He took a deep breath, and nearly retched at the smell from the slaver.

Chained to the floor, rolling in excrement, nothing to look forward to but the lash.

Five hundred gold guineas, he told himself firmly. Perhaps his teeth wouldn't ache like this in England. Perhaps that familiar chill wouldn't march up and down his spine. "Oh Christ, not again."

* * * *

Running again. Running faster than his ruined body ever could. Faster than this dream self had run before, because he was on an open field. Nothing to bar his way but a haze of powder smoke that stung his throat. Not looking back because he did not need to see Napoleon's cavalry behind him when the ground quaked and thundered with their hooves. No need to see the forest of lances when his back tingled as though they were already stabbing through his red coat. No desire to look back when the smear of scarlet ahead was made of men in the coats that had once meant imprisonment, but today meant the only hope he had.

The redcoats were in a line two deep, the front row on one knee. Their muskets pointed straight at him. He knew that the muskets were aimed at the cavalry behind him, just as the cavalry's lances were pointed at the infantry in front, but none of that would matter if the cavalry caught him or the muskets fired before he reached that red line of hope.

Close now. So close he could see the grime on the coats and the gritted teeth behind the muskets. Hear the fear in a sergeant's shout. "Wait! Waaaaiiiiit!"

Close enough to meet the eyes of a mounted officer behind the muskets of hope, see the decision in them when the officer saw the color of his face, see his sword drop. See hope vanish behind stabbing flames and more smoke.

George Harding told himself, yet again, that he had not left his hammock, but damn it he felt lead slam into him. He saw iron-shod hooves hammer into the grass around his fragile head. He heard the screams of men and horses and musket balls blend into a diabolic crescendo. He even found himself retreating into memories that weren't his, of the scorching heat of the island where he first put on a red coat; of the endless days of sweating with the Brown Bess muskets that tore the air above him. He remembered the day when the sergeant finally nodded his approval. "Not bad, Private Sambo. We'll make a major of you yet."

He had laughed with the rest of his platoon at the twin absurdities of a Major Sambo, and any officer handling a musket. He drifted away into those memories while mosquitoes whined around his ears, and the future of a foreign continent was decided by in death piling up around him.

Fingers glided across his body. The shooting had stopped, leaving only groans that sounded as though they came from the ground itself. The weight of the purse of coins around his neck was missing. Hands were under his coat now, tugging at the juju belt he wore around his waist. A woman's voice grunted with bemusement when she pulled it free but the hands came back, into his mouth this time. Something pricked his gums. His eyes snapped open to see a woman's smooth face bathed in moonlight. Her hair brushed his cheeks with a silken caress. He was still trying to smile for her when her knife flashed out of his mouth and into his throat.

* * * *

George Harding rolled away from her and fell out of the hammock. He sat up cautiously. His head was clear and he felt no sign of fever. He had not felt this healthy since he arrived in Bathurst. He stood up without any complaint from his gout, and almost felt as though he could do without a drink. Almost.

A man was sitting behind his desk. He blinked and shook his head, but there was still a black man wearing a red coat in his chair. Harding was furious. Whatever reason he might have for being there, he had absolutely no business in Harding's chair. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

The man replied with a tight-lipped frown.

"Boy!" The soldier was wearing an infantryman's coat, although there were only artillerymen and engineers in Bathurst. Not that being a visitor gave him any more right to act as though he owned the place.

"Massa?" The houseboy appeared at the door.

"What's this damned impudence?" He waved a hand at his chair.

"Massa?" The boy looked confused.

Harding made a great effort to speak slowly. "What. Is. This. Man. Doing. In. My. Bloody. Chair. Damn your eyes!"

"What man, Massa?"

Harding's face burned and he felt as though an anchor chain was crushing his chest. He tried to remember if he'd left that pistol loaded. "This bastard! Here! You make game of me, boy, and by God I'll see your black arse flogged off!"

The boy looked at the chair, then back at Harding. His perplexity faded to an understanding that belied the only name that Harding had ever used for him. "I get Massa Chaplain, Massa."

The boy disappeared, leaving Harding's mouth working to form words that would not come.

"He can't see me, you know," said the soldier behind the desk.

"What?"

"Your boy. He can't see me, so you might as well let him be."

Harding was as startled by the accent as the words. He'd never met an African who could speak more than a few words of pidgin, but this voice belonged on Wapping docks. "Just as well he's gone. You and me got things to talk about."

"What things? I don't know you."

"Not exactly, but we're close acquaintances. You got my word on that." The soldier rolled back his lips to reveal torn, toothless gums.

Harding's teeth unleashed a gale of pain that almost blinded him. "Oh my God!"

The soldier smiled and nodded. Harding sat down heavily. "It's not true. I'm imagining you. You're a fever dream. Just need a stiff drink."

Harding reached for his brandy. The soldier smiled again. "If you could see the state of your liver, you'd see fever's the least of your problems."

Harding's hand flew to his chest, where he thought his liver probably was. He could feel it swelling like a filling wineskin, shoving aside stomach, lungs, heart, anything in the way of its conquest. That was ridiculous, his chest had felt fine all day. It was the only thing that had. "A drink."

"Won't help. Nothing will."

Harding gave up trying to push himself upright. "Is that why you're here?"

The soldier stopped smiling. "Dunno why I'm here. I mean, I know you got my teeth, but I dunno much else."

"Oh God."

"Maybe. I know I weren't very good to Him. I'm sure He knows that slave drivers and sergeants don't let you stop what you're doing to pray, and He knows the army don't give you nothing to drink except rum, but perhaps that just means Muslims should avoid slavers and stay out of the army."

Harding felt a chasm open up inside him. He was used to thinking of death as an end to be delayed for as long as possible, but now the end had come and this man was saying that it wasn't even an end. Saliva ran down his chin, and his nose filled. "What will happen to me?"

The soldier stood and took Harding's hands. There was real compassion in his voice. "I don't know."

Vicars liked to preach about conscience. Perhaps that was what Harding needed now. He rifled through the broken bottles and lost paperwork of his soul, knowing he had hidden from his life's frustrations by bullying others and blinding himself with drunkenness. That gave him no claim to clemency, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Nothing? He looked up. The soldier helped Harding to stand. Harding took his seat behind his desk, and managed to keep his hand steady enough to write an order to land the Cassandra's slaves, and provide them with whatever food and physic they needed. He looked at the tear-stained paper in front of him and wondered whether it would count for anything in a few minutes time. Still, something in his chest felt a little lighter for writing it. He blew his nose and wrote another letter, commending Commander Cooper for his zeal and humanity for his representation on behalf of the souls he had liberated. That made him feel better too, though two pages of blotted ink were little enough to apologies for a life as miserable as his. He hoped the houseboy would spare him a kind thought when he and the chaplain found him.

The soldier took his hand. "Come on. There's something else we both need to do."

Harding stood unaided, and let the soldier lead him outside. They stood, side by side, with their backs to the setting sun. The soldier knelt and touched his head to the ground. Harding knelt beside him, and he knew he would not be getting up.

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Read more of DJ Cockburn's writing here:

Under the Hooked Cross, for sale at http://lillibridgepress.com/book/dj_cockburn/Under_the_Hooked_Cross
Steel in the Morning, free at http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2010/04/steel-in-morning.html

Today Toad welcomes fantasy author Greg Hamerton to her corner. If you enjoy epic fantasy, Greg is an author you need to keep an eye out for. His lively imagination and command of the English language provide passports to a world where almost anything is possible.

Tell us about your setting of your novels.

The Tale of the Lifesong is set in Oldenworld, a parallel world where magic has been coaxed out of the essence a little more than we have managed to achieve so far. In that way, it could be set in our future, or our forgotten past. The series is a meditation on magic, music and life. In the first tale, The Riddler’s Gift, we enter a sheltered realm in which the lead character, Tabitha Serannon, completes her apprenticeship and begins to sing the song that will echo through all worlds and all time. In the second tale, Second Sight, we learn how Oldenworld reached a pinnacle of order, but in so doing created the seeds of chaos among the dispossessed. A mighty sorcerer is intent on destroying every trace of civilisation. Although Tabitha is being groomed by the wizards, she sees beyond their order as her second sight develops. She gives voice to the beauty that can change the violence, chaos and ugliness in the world.

When did you know you had it in you to be a writer?

Many, many years ago, I wrote a letter to Richard Bach, praising his work but also insisting that his ideas seemed to come from my head. He wrote back, full of wise understanding, telling me that only I could write the stories I needed to write to my people and my time.

What’s the most difficult aspect of your craft?

Not owning that villa overlooking the sea with all those minions and endless celebrations in champagne-Jacuzzis. If I worked at any other profession for this long I’d have earned all that, by now. They tell us we get royalties, so if it’s any consolation to aspiring writers, it’s a noble profession. No really, I’m not that shallow, I’m happy with my cosy life. What’s really hard, with writing, is holding on to the singular vision of your story world, as the demands of the real world try to intrude. Hold on, I’ve got to go make a cup of coffee…

;-)

Who is the one author you keep returning to, and why?

Greg Hamerton. I know, I know, I’m not that vain, my point is that I’ve been doing this for more than ten years and have spent way more time reading my own writing, editing it, trying to improve it, than any time spent reading other authors. I don’t generally read any fantasy while I’m working on a novel, because I don’t want interference or distraction. But there are authors whose work I love, and Richard Bach is probably my strongest influence… he was the first one to change my world, and one day I aspire to writing something with as much power as Jonathan Livingstone Seagull in so few words.

What are some of the trends you’re seeing in fantasy writing at the moment?

Trends? I have no idea. A literary agent criticised me for this recently, but if I was a literary agent or big publisher I’d need to be obsessed by trends. As an author who takes a very long time to write long fantasy novels, the trends seem rather irrelevant because if I wrote to hit the current trend I would always miss the band wagon. All I can hope is that the trend is for my kind of writing when it is released. If anything, I’d say there seem to be many fantasy titles on the shelf right now that are 500 pages or more, part of a series, feature young lead characters, lots of action and would appeal to a broad audience including young adult. So my books fit right in. Lucky, that.

Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

Are you mad? Because if you aren’t, you’ll study the writing profession before committing to it, and you’ll come to the conclusion that it is probably not a good career move, at least not until you’ve made pots of money elsewhere. But if you are mad, then you’ll stop reading articles “about writing” round about now, dive into the art headlong, write manuscripts, collect rejection letters, and eventually reach the nirvana of seeing your own book in print. Then you’ll find out: that is the first stage of being an author, and the real work has just begun. You have a career to build. Good luck!

Flash fiction: Bethany by Carine Engelbrecht

This week Toad presents a delightfully wicked piece of flash fiction by South African author Carine Engelbrecht. Enjoy!

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Bethany

Cat liked the look.

For the three months before they began shooting, Hughie banned her off the beaches, which was how she got just the right translucent skin tone. It was also how her romance with Brandon Tardis got a serious knock when he fell for Brazilian supermodel Sylvana, with her topless tan in the Caribbean, but that’s another story. It hardly mattered now, anyway.

She absolutely loved the look.

The character, Countess Bethany, was supposedly based on a real-life villainess who had terrorised the county they filmed in with her cruelty and her bloodlust. That had been some time towards the end of the twelfth century. To get her into the part, Hughie made her read all sorts of yellowing tomes in archaic language about what the countess had been like.

He spent ages location scouting before he found the castle. For its use, they paid a tidy fortune to an impoverished lord whose family had owned it since the 1600s. The lord said no one knew who had originally built it, but Hughie thought he did.

At first the place gave Cat the creeps. It was draughty and the poor wiring sometimes caused lights to go off for no reason. That drove the gaffers crazy. Sometimes an icy breeze seemed to slip very real fingers under the bodice of Cat’s deep-crimson outfit.

She found a favourite nook between floors, though, a tiny secret room full of dust and bits of bones. A slit window seemed to look out directly to the road everyone used to approach the castle. Cat wiped some of the dust away and used the place to study her lines. No one ever bothered her there. It was as if nobody but her knew it existed.

One lazy afternoon she sat in her usual spot, imagining she was the real Bethany, a woman whose husband feared her, whose neighbours plotted against her, a woman who longed only to feed her insatiable hunger for beauty, but could not quite manage to escape the confinement of her gender. Not in that age.

Cat opened her eyes and found something glittering on the dusty floor, a necklace with a gem that looked exactly like a drop of blood. Strange that she had not noticed it before.

She cleaned it up and put it on. It complemented her costume perfectly.

That evening they shot the key scene, in which Countess Bethany first seduced Lord Roland, her main adversary, played by Eldridge Moore. He was, despite one night of surprisingly good sex, a bit of a drip and way too much in love with his latest bride.

Cat really got into the scene, only hearing Hughie the third time when he yelled, “Cut, cut, cut!” Apparently, Eldridge had started screaming long before then. She had his blood on her chin, but not that much of it.

Hughie sent the actor off to the medics for some stitches and a sedative, but he did not seem at all displeased with Cat.

Two nights later, a local teen disappeared from a rave. He had been a problem child and his parents suspected he had run away. Cat read about it in the papers, trying to brush away a hangover and some disturbingly violent flashbacks from a dream she only half remembered. She had been to the same rave.

By the time his mangled and badly decomposed body was found, there were other missing kids, in other cities… Cat kept clippings. A morbid obsession, her therapist called it. According to him, the violent dreams were stress related. Many young actresses suffered similar problems when their careers suddenly took off.

Her pallor became a trend that female fans were never quite able to duplicate. She never smiled in photographs, but that, too, became fashionable.

Did it really matter that her mind seemed like an empty collection of echoes, that she sometimes felt like a ghost haunting what she used to call her life?

* * * *

Carine Engelbrecht writes fantasy, horror and science fiction. Long ago she briefly played guitar for an all-girl metal band called Misery. Nowadays she mostly plays guitar in her room, and if there is an audience, it’s nothing more spectacular than the occasional cat and/or disincarnate spirit. From time to time she even commits visual expression of some sort. She is a member of Cape Town’s Adamastor Writers’ Guild.

Excerpt: Kaydana and the Dragon Prince

Kaydana and the Dragon Prince

by Nyki Blatchley

An excerpt from chapter 7

“Come for a flight with me,” suggested Zazzu.

Kaydana looked up in surprise from the dragon scroll she’d been studying—an account of the fall of Arlh, the lost city from which the Staff of Ishlun came—to see the Prince standing in the doorway, an amused expression on his alien features. She’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t heard him enter.

She glanced at the wide opening that all rooms had in this city, allowing the dragon-forms to enter from flight. The sky was blue with puffy white clouds scudding across it, and the air warm, except for the lively breeze. It would be wonderful to go flying out into a day like this, especially in the company of the great, golden dragon, but she had to be realistic.

“It would be lovely, but I could never keep up with you. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy yourself.”

Zazzu smiled more deeply. “I would not object to being held up for such a reason.”

Kaydana felt herself blushing, though there was frustration as well as pleasure. In the three days since her arrival, the Prince had been attentive and certainly showed interest, but that was as far as he’d gone, and she still felt that strange inability to push their relationship further.

“Nevertheless,” the Prince added, “that was not what I had in mind. Have you ever ridden on the back of a dragon?”

His tone suggested that he was asking if she’d ever drunk wine or eaten a peach, but Kaydana’s heart leapt and refused to come down. This was what had brought her along with Tela in the first place—the magic of a golden dragon in flight. What would it be like to soar with him, borne up by his powerful wings?

“No,” she managed, “but there’s a first time for everything.” She glanced about, as unsure as she was of seducing him. “What do I...”

“Let me change first,” Zazzu told her, “and then climb up onto my neck, so that you’re sitting on my shoulders. Don’t worry. I can’t speak your tongue in that form, but I’m still myself and I’ll do you no harm.”

He walked to the opening and turned to face her, holding himself still for an instant before the change began. Kaydana had only seen this process once before, on the night she’d arrived, and that was in reverse. She wasn’t sure whether the dragons normally preferred to keep to their human forms, but suspected that it was mainly out of courtesy to their guests.

The magnificent golden man grew indistinct, his shape swirling and altering. A moment later, a vast dragon stood before her, its scales gleaming gold and its head stretched proudly high above her. The eyes turned down to regard her, magical rainbow eyes, and Kaydana felt momentarily reassured. Their amused interest was the same expression she’d come to know in Zazzu’s eyes.

Still, she couldn’t help flinching as she approached the creature. This was a dragon, for the Goddess’s sake, and she had to climb up onto its back. Although she trusted Zazzu—trusted him more than was reasonable, perhaps—she still wondered if this was going to be the last thing she did.

Zazzu lay down, stretching out one foreleg, and Kaydana realised that he was inviting her to climb it. Steeling herself, she stepped onto the limb and stretched up, hauling herself up by its elbow. The dragon’s scales, which looked so smooth from a distance, actually had just enough roughness to help her, though she treated them with caution, afraid that she’d hurt Zazzu.

Reaching the huge, golden shoulders at last, Kaydana flung her leg awkwardly over the neck where it joined the dragon’s body, finally managing to settle into a balanced and reasonably comfortable seat. The head turned on its long neck to look at her, the dragon’s face no more than a foot from her own. Hoping she didn’t look as terrified as she felt, Kaydana nodded.

The body beneath her surged up, and further up, as the dragon rose first to its feet and then into flight, soaring out of the room’s opening into the warm, exciting day.

Kaydana’s fear was gone in ten heartbeats, replaced by the exhilaration she always felt when flying. This was different, though. She was used to being utterly in control of her flight, but now she felt helpless and safe at the same time, surrendered to the care of the creature she rode. Of Zazzu.

The dragon swooped and rose higher, soaring up towards the high peaks, and Kaydana had to restrain herself from whooping like a child, even as she grabbed a couple of Zazzu’s scales to stop herself from sliding out of her seat. Their flight climbed almost vertically, until the tallest mountain lay beneath and the dragon levelled out to soar through the clear air, every motion graceful.

They flew far from the dragons’ city, passing over mountains still cloaked in snow in high summer, swooping down into valleys so inaccessible that Kaydana doubted any human foot had ever trodden there. She’d have loved to explore, but Zazzu never landed, merely flying around and then soaring back to the upper air.

At last, though, he came to rest on a broad ledge, perhaps fifty paces across, and knelt, as if to indicate that Kaydana should dismount. When she was down, a little stiff from the unfamiliar seat, the air blurred and he returned to his human-like shape.

“Did you enjoy that?” Zazzu asked. His face bore an unusual expression—mixed with the quiet humour often found there was an eager, almost excited look.

“It was lovely.” In fact, Kaydana realised, it had been a little more than that. In spite of the soreness, her pussy was damp from the delicious rubbing of his scales and the thrill of sharing his flight. It seemed that Zazzu could arouse her even in his dragon form.

This was disturbing, Kaydana decided. To distract herself, she glanced around. “Where are we?”

“High up the side of a mountain.” Zazzu’s smile intensified, along with the excitement. “If you were anyone else, I’d say I’ve brought you somewhere you’d never escape. Somewhere I could do whatever I chose with you.”

* * * *

See Nyki’s Lyrical Press profile here: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=authors&authors_id=11

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Toad would like to invite published authors to submit their excerpts, requests for interviews, novels for reviews, short stories or guest-blogging opportunities to her PA at nerinedorman@gmail.com. Please remember to insert “Toad’s Corner” in the subject field.

Cathleen Ross' Dirty Sexy Murder

Toad apologises for the inconvenience caused by a small hiatus in posting at her corner. Her PA has been under a wee bit of stress at her day-job so has been unable to keep up with the workflow. Month-end has come and gone, so things are looking a little less grim so, without further delay, Toad welcomes Cathleen Ross to her corner.

* * * *

Cathleen Ross likes to write about the quirky side of life. Her characters often have psychic abilities because she comes from a family of psychics and kooky people. She thought she was a “sweet” writer until she was asked to write her first erotic story and she’s never looked back. She then went on to write outrageous sexy fantasies, compiled them in a book and sold it to Black Lace/Random House. Man Hunt became the number-one best-selling erotic novel on the publisher’s website in 2006. Her mother was banned from reading it.

She has also sold to Harlequin Spice and she is excited about her latest sale to a NY e-publishing house, Lyrical Press and seeing the release of her romantic paranormal mystery, Dirty Sexy Murder, a novel set in a Brazilian waxing parlor. When she’s not writing, Cathleen works for a tertiary institution as a writing teacher.

To learn more, visit http://www.cathleenross.com

Email address for readers: contact@cathleenross.com

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When did you know you wanted to be a writer and what genres attracted you?

I started writing in my early twenties. At first I started to write sweet stories but when I was invited by a publisher to write erotic stories, I sold all my submissions. Fortunately the erotic boom has meant there will always be a place to send sexy stories that don’t fit the mold.

Which of your characters would you like to meet, where and what would you do with them for day?

I sometimes write really cheeky mean heroines like my heroine Gabby in my Spice Brief Psychic Sex who would seduce innocent men. I’d love to go to a Hell Fire Club with my heroine.

What are some of the most important themes prevalent in your tales?

There are two themes that keep emerging in my work. One is the cheeky heroine who seduces innocent men and is a dom in bed. The other is a psychic character like Marina in Dirty Sexy Murder who is learning to deal with her emerging psychic powers.

Have you had any out-of-the-ordinary encounters with your readers?

My publisher Harlequin suggested I join myspace to start publicizing my work. The first person who asked to sign up as a friend was called aslave4aday.

Slave was a very entertaining “friend” who I interviewed for the current book that is doing the rounds of publishers.

Care to discuss your current work-in-progress?

When I was skiing in Vail in January, I had a dream about a Scottish knight, and a heroine who accused him of murdering her brother. It was one of those kiss-or-kill situations, though being an erotic historical, the knight kissed the lady. I could see him wearing his chainmail and knew it was in the medieval period. I also knew from his dialogue that it was at the time that Scotland was in turmoil. I checked on the internet, found the period and the date when the event I dreamed about could have happened. I’ve almost finished the story, but what was interesting was that I found a real-life character who did the things I’m writing about and he has the same name as my hero. There’s a reason I write about psychic heroines.

What advice do you have for small press authors looking at ways to market themselves?

I think it’s important to blog in an interesting way as much as you can. I’m also looking into ways of marketing Dirty Sexy Murder, which is coming out in print in July. So far, I’ve been told Romance Sells is a good place to take an advertisement. It’s a good idea to join Facebook and Myspace. You never know who you will meet there. Make sure you have a good website, join lists that interest you but give as well as market yourself as there is nothing worse than people who spam.

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And to end on a note from Toad’s PA...

A call for submissions for a Titanic-inspired line of stories (novella to novel-length works across ALL genres)

Call for submissions: http://nerinedorman.blogspot.com/2010/05/call-for-submissions-titanic-inspired.html

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ARE YOU A PUBLISHED AUTHOR?

Toad invites authors to share their short stories, poems, flash fiction, author interviews and excerpts. Toad also reviews novels, so is happy to oblige you if you have a release in mind. Please keep to the F/SF/H genre theme for Toad’s blog and email her PA at nerinedorman@gmail.com for further details. Please remember to put “Toad’s Corner” in the subject line so the silly hooman doesn’t get confused, okay?

Toad also runs a Facebook group called Toad’s Corner. Drop by and give her a croak at: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/group.php?gid=106836496003074&ref=ts

Here you can see a summary of the posts that have taken place before, as well as receive monthly notifications with links and commentary.

Zachariah McNaughton lives in Sarasota Florida with his wife and two cats. He’s published poetry, stories and translations in various magazines and online publications, including Underground Voices Magazine, Poesy, and Abraxas. This week he brings us a short story entitled The Cameraman. Although Zachariah has not shared a F/SF/H story with Toad as such, she really likes this dark, evocative piece and has decided to share it anyway.

* * * *

The Cameraman

I found the photograph in the sink. Well to be more precise I found it in the cabinet underneath the sink. I ventured into its shadowy back corners looking for any kind of disinfectant to clean the bathtub before I used it. (It was a public bathroom shared by other tenants in the same building.) A few strings of cobwebs had attached themselves to it when I found it, lying upside down at the very back of the cabinet.

I don’t know how to explain it really. There’s a rarely quoted corollary that states behind every picture is a thousand words. But I don’t even know how to begin. It is hard enough to write or say anything without twisting the truth, stretching it out or smushing it flat, but to describe a picture in words is next to impossible.

Perhaps I should begin by describing the photograph itself and not even bother right now with the picture on the photograph. It consists of a thin cardboard-like paper, mostly white on the back side, except for some yellowish discoloring, a paisley spot of mold and a heavy crease running lengthwise, that is, horizontally down the center, crossing through the actual picture on the other side as well. It holds approximately the same dimensions as a notecard one uses to take notes or in studying. So far, so good. There is a looped piece of duct tape on the back side that still holds some flakes of green paint in its glue. Of course this came later, when I taped the photograph on the wall above my desk and left it there for some time. Several years or so, I can’t remember exactly how long it was, only that it was long enough that I’ve begun to look at it without even seeing it.

Now the picture―before I get to the actual picture I would like to beg a small favor from the reader. I would like you to imagine the photograph as I’ve described it so far, resting in your hand between thumb and forefinger. I want you to look at the picture and clear your mind of any expectation. It’s very much like going to someone’s house for the first time. Before you get there, some vague idea forms in the back of your mind about the layout and arrangement of the house, perhaps based on your knowledge of the owner’s personality or affluence, perhaps influenced by some childhood dream of a house or even just a passing fancy at the moment that the idea of this particular house first crossed your mind. Now I want you to cancel that expectation. Look at the picture without envisioning it. Imagine you are blind and have been so since birth. Now consider what you would think a picture must look like. Close your eyes and visualize visualization. Empty space. Perhaps an x and a y axis, maybe a word or even just a symbol that equates the idea of image.

Now with that understanding, the understanding that there is absolutely no expectation of what the picture might or might not look like, I shall begin to describe it as I first saw it upon my chance discovery at the bottom of a utility cabinet beneath the sink of a fourth floor apartment bathroom with only the unpolished white tile floor as a background.

The first shape to jump out is a human being. A woman in the center of the image. Her head tilts downward at a slight angle but her shoulders remain perpendicular to the line of sight of the camera lens. She is facing the camera standing in front of a mirror but there is no glimpse of the camera or the person behind the camera, except perhaps, and I’m getting ahead of myself here, an elbow just to the left of the woman, or from her point of view, just behind her and to the right. Well now I’ve gotten myself into trouble. The elbow is only behind her and to the right if we imagine that her image in the mirror is actually her. If we imagine that she herself, that is, the physical manifestation of herself, which is outside of the picture, is actually her, then the elbow would in fact lie slightly behind her and to the left.

So far I’ve served only to muddy the water. From the point of view of what the picture actually is, the elbow is unimportant. It is barely noticeable and I don’t think I saw it until I questioned where the camera must have been placed to take such a frontal view of a mirror image without itself being seen.

The room, and I conclude that it is indeed a room from the surroundings, is most likely a bathroom. Beneath the mirror lies a small wooden ledge, (or something that looks very much like wood.) On top of this ledge a great many bottles and vials cluster together along the mirror. But if you count them, there are not as many as it seems. The mirror serves to double the count and that gives it a very crowded feel. They appear to be toiletries: lip balm, perfume, lipstick, dental floss, and an oval box―perhaps a powder box, with its lid propped half-opened towards the mirror so that only in the mirror image does one get a tiny sliver of a peek of its contents, something dark and intangible against the glossy reflection of the inner metallic lining of the box. There is no toothbrush or toothpaste apparent.

From the photograph I can only conclude that the picture is of a woman putting her makeup on.

On the far left of the picture, to the actual woman’s far left and to the right of the visual woman in the mirror, the picture gradually brightens from the orange wallpaper with a faded pattern, to a soft yellow, and terminating in a faint white glow at the very edge of the photograph. To my mind there are only three possible explanations of this phenomenon.

First, there may in fact be a window. This was my first impression. There are distinct lines or ripples along the color gradation that insinuate a very thin, gauze-like curtain, behind which one might expect to find a window. It is possible. But it is also possible that I was unduly influenced by my initial impression that the bathroom in which I found the photograph was one and the same with the bathroom in the picture.

In my bathroom there is also a mirror, though it’s newer, recently installed, and certainly not the same mirror as the one in the picture. There is also a window in my bathroom just to the left of the mirror from my point of view facing my reflection, or, if one were to take a picture of my reflection in the mirror, the window would be to the right of my visual image in the mirror, just like the window in reference to the woman’s visual image. However, in my bathroom there is no wallpaper, not even faded wallpaper, but plain white paint. And the window has no curtain. Of course mirrors can be changed, wallpaper can be stripped, and window curtains taken away, but there is simply not enough evidence either way. I cannot say with any degree of certainty that the bathroom in the picture is or is not the bathroom where I make my toilet every morning and evening.

Sometimes, I like to assume that they are the same bathroom. I take the photograph with me into the bath and look at it and feel a unity with this ghost of a person who stood in the exact same room, only at a different time. But also I enjoy imagining that it is a completely different bathroom in a completely different house that I’ve never been in or even seen. And then the picture becomes my single keyhole through which I view one single moment of the inner workings of the bathroom of a strange home. I watch, without any fear of ever being caught, a complete stranger, who may or may not even live there herself, as she conducts the chore of applying, or possibly removing make-up.

There is another explanation for the brightening of the image at the far end of the photograph. The photograph may have simply faded. The edge may have been exposed to more sunlight than the rest of the picture. Perhaps someone slipped the photograph under a book on a window ledge or in the back of a car and left it there for an extended period of time, long enough to cause the exposed portion of the photograph to fade. I don’t like to linger on this possibility, however real it may be. When I look at it this way, I begin to feel quite mortal. I can see the process of decay in the photograph. And although it may continue to exist for a long time, I cannot deny the inevitability that this picture too must perish. For some reason that is even harder for me to face than my own death. I know that one day I’ll die. I prefer not to dwell on that fact, but if pushed to it, I must admit that it is more than a possibility or a probability, but an absolute certainty, that I will die. I will cease to breathe. But at least in my death there is some consolation. I will continue to live on in the memories of those who loved me. But even after everyone who ever knew me dies, pictures of me will still exist. Long after I am completely forgotten and everyone who knew people who knew me dies, pictures of me will continue to exist. After every particle in my being is broken down and scattered and reattached as various other atoms and molecules, the visual proof of my existence will remain, if only in the back of a moldy cabinet of some future bathroom for some imaginary stranger to find as he looks around for cleaning supplies. But if the picture itself decays? Then what remains? The ripple expands outward indefinitely, past the sky, past the moon, past the solar system and Voyagers I and II until the riptide that was my existence, mingled with six billion other existences, expands to encompass the universe as far as humans can perceive and beyond. It frightens me to think of a decaying photograph. I would prefer any other possible alternative to this one.

There is another possibility. It came to me after a long, restless dream. What if the camera malfunctioned? Maybe the film itself had been partially exposed before the photograph had ever been taken. Then the picture was compromised from the beginning. The art of observation is a subtle one. Cameras, in which we place the power to create facts, the ultimate tool in empirical evidence, are subject to every possible trick that light can play. Spheres, orbs, halos, UFOs can all be ascribed to the finicky nature of captured light. Yes, it does travel in a straight line. But it also bends, vibrates, pulsates, twinkles. It can cast shadows. It travels for millions of light years and still ends up in some whirlpool of gravity to disappear forever. We don’t understand it. It’s beyond us, surrounds, encompasses us all the time and we have only two soggy eyes to detect it, or even less reliable, the clumsy click of a camera shutter taking in light for a fragment of a second and storing it on film.

Something bothers me about this possibility. Somehow it feels dishonest, like a shirking of responsibility, to blame it on the camera. But any rational creature must admit to the possibility of error.

Amidst the turbulence of determining the causes and effects, the ebb and flow of all the various possibilities of reflected light recorded onto a photograph, I’ve forgotten the most important point. The picture is of a woman. And that may indeed be a rather anthrocentric interpretation of the picture, but neither am I completely unbiased as an observer. I, too, am homo sapiens. And in any picture in which a human figure is centered, I will always take that person as my focus. And if the reader is humanoid as well, we cannot help but share the same bias. The question we all beg is, who is this woman? I don’t know. I don’t know! All I can see is her face, tilted downwards. Her face is serenely expressionless. It is the face of someone engaged in a routine task, a task that one can do, and often does do, without conscious thought. Inside, she might be anywhere―in her memories, in her ideas, anywhere within the sphere of what she can possibly imagine. Or nowhere at all. Perhaps her mind is blank. Like imagining a picture without visualizing it. A complete spatial-geometrical balance of emptiness. Like a lava lamp in the one unrecorded moment in the history of lava lamps when all the wax particles perfectly and uniformly distribute themselves throughout the water. In short, we cannot say what she is thinking or not thinking. Only a poet or a liar would dare to try.

But the facts! And there are facts, as far as they go. Her hair is pinned to the top of her head. It is gray. Gray-ish. There are hints of other colors. Black, brown, and blonde. She might have been a redhead. But she is certainly past middle age. If pressed, I would guess her age to lie somewhere between 48 and 55. She doesn’t look old. In fact, her face looks young. There are no detectable wrinkles. But she feels tired. She looks tired. She looks like she feels tired. But she is not unattractive, if in my position as a predominantly heterosexual male in his late twenties in the year 2007 BCE does not disqualify my opinion, then I would even venture to say that she is beautiful.

Perhaps that is why I slipped the photograph into my shirt pocket upon discovering it, instead of tossing it back to its original obscurity in disgust. I was attracted to the woman, to the picture, to the picture of the woman in the photograph. Even now, several years later, it does not cease to stimulate me. Who is this woman? Why is she so perfectly expressionless? Why am I so intrigued?

It is rare to find a photograph of a human without any hint of motion or pose. We are observant creatures. We notice when someone has a camera. We notice elbows in mirrors behind us, or in front of us in the reflections of mirrors. Under any observation we immediately become self-conscious, shy, but especially around a camera. We know that anyone might find what a camera discovers. Someone might steal our souls. But in the bathroom, in the middle of our hygienic routine, we are intensely jealous of our privacy. Particularly women, if I may be so bold as to suggest a definite general trend of difference in behavior between men and women, value their privacy, particularly in the bathroom, particularly while making their toilet. I do not know. I cannot know it. But I sense that this woman is completely unaware that a picture is being taken while she looks down at something in her hands above what is most likely the bathroom sink, in front of a cluttered pile of hygiene products.

I don’t know. I can’t know why she attracts me so much, intrigues me to the point that I stare and stare and can’t stop staring. She never ages in the picture. She never moves. Her eyes remain forever downward so that I can only ever see the oval curves of her eyelids and eyelashes. She will never look up and see me. Or the person taking the picture.

And therein lies the greatest mystery of the photograph. The elbow. It may not even be an elbow, it may be a plaid wash-cloth hanging from a hook on the door, somehow twisted and hanging in a way to assume the shape of a human joint. But I believe it is an elbow. I believe it with my entire being―body, soul, and spirit! It is the person taking the picture. I know it. As far as I can know anything, I know this, that the shape in the reflection of the mirror in the bathroom in the picture on the photograph is a human being grasping a camera and taking a picture of a woman at a bathroom sink.

And you can argue with me. You can attempt to dissuade me. You can use every conceivable argument or even throw back in my face the arguments I’ve already put forth concerning the light along the edge of the photograph and the possible causes and reasons for it, you can take the photograph out of my hands by force, burn it in front of my eyes and tell me it is all a lie, a trick, a freak accident. But I can no more deny the truth of the elbow than I can deny the breath in my lungs, or the consciousness in my brain. The elbow exists or I do not.

And now I see I’ve gotten carried away. Forgive me. This is something I feel passionate about. I consider myself somewhat duty-bound as far as my testimony concerning this photograph is concerned. If I allow myself a little leeway it’s because I’ve looked at it for a long time and I believe if I were called as witness in a court of law my opinion would be considered expert and therefore valid. There is an elbow! There is a cameraman!

But I may have omitted one small, possibly inconsequential, detail of the photograph. In the bottom right hand of the photograph there are four letters printed in white. July. And below that word, two digits. 87. The picture is recorded as being taken twenty years ago. The cameraman, this woman, may still be living. Still breathing. Somehow this picture came into my possession from theirs. Somehow, in some way, I am already connected to them. But for all I fight and rage and tear at myself inside over their identities, I may have already met them. Perhaps she was the woman I honked in the mall parking lot. Or perhaps he was the man I passed on the park bench on my way home this morning. I couldn’t tell for sure.

* * * *

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