Mama's Boy And Other Dark Tales Part 1

Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales.

By Fran Friel.

What Are We Witnessing?

An Introduction by Gary A. Braunbeck

"We enter, we find our way through. Maybe something we experience changes the way we look at the world."

-Robert Freeman Wexler, In Springdale Town In Springdale Town I blame Peter Straub.

(I was going to blame Hemingway, but since he's been dead for as long as I've been alive, it hardly seems fair since he's not here to defend himself. The last thing I want is for Hemingway's ghost to come back from the Otherwhere and kick my a.s.s, so the blame goes to Straub-who can also easily kick my a.s.s, but I digress.) Why blame Straub?

For the same reason that a lot of comics in the 50s and 60s blamed Lenny Bruce.

To whit: in the 50s and 60s, the club stages in Vegas and New York and Los Angeles were filled with comedians who'd cut their teeth in burlesque and on the radio, many of whom-like the late, great Myron Cohen (Google him)-came out onto the stage, said "Good evening," to the audience, and then for the next 45-60 minutes, proceeded to simply tell jokes simply tell jokes. The same kind of jokes we tell one another, those of the cla.s.sic two-line setup, followed by the punchline: "A man walks into a doctor's office with a duck on his head. The doctor looks at the man and says, "Can I help you?" And the duck says, "Yeah-is there any way you can get this guy off my a.s.s?" (Insert rimshot.) Audiences loved it; a comic tells jokes for an hour, everybody laughs and tips their waitresses, a win/win situation all around.

And then came some Jewish punk named Lenny Bruce ... and nothing was ever the same again. Bruce was not only one of the first comedians to use profanity in his act, but he did so much more than just tell jokes. His routines would go on for ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes; he used different voices for characters in these routines; his routines often had actual storylines actual storylines; he wasn't afraid to address the hot-b.u.t.ton issues of the day, or satirize the political and Hollywood icons of the time in these one-man, multi-voiced mini-plays. Once audiences got over their initial shock, Bruce became, for a little while, the hottest comedian around.

And the old-school comics hated hated him for it. In what seemed less time than it took for a joke to bomb, the traditional two-line setup/punchline gags were antiquated. If they wanted to stay in the business, the old-schoolers had to adapt or step aside. Some hoped that Bruce's style of comedy was just a flash in the pan. But by the time of Bruce's tragic death in 1966 at the age of 40, his influence had spread; young comedians like Bill Cosby, Richard Prior, and George Carlin had picked up on Bruce's complex, multi-voiced story routines and were running with it. Some worked "blue," some didn't, but all were moving forward on the basis of Bruce's legacy. him for it. In what seemed less time than it took for a joke to bomb, the traditional two-line setup/punchline gags were antiquated. If they wanted to stay in the business, the old-schoolers had to adapt or step aside. Some hoped that Bruce's style of comedy was just a flash in the pan. But by the time of Bruce's tragic death in 1966 at the age of 40, his influence had spread; young comedians like Bill Cosby, Richard Prior, and George Carlin had picked up on Bruce's complex, multi-voiced story routines and were running with it. Some worked "blue," some didn't, but all were moving forward on the basis of Bruce's legacy.

What does any of this have to do with Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales, and for what, precisely, am I blaming Peter Straub?

Easy: until the 1990 release of Straub's remarkable collection, Houses Without Doors Houses Without Doors, the genre writer was content to release his or her short-story collection with either A) Just a dozen or so stories between the covers, or, B) With newly-written Introductions before each story, discussing some aspect of the piece that was to follow (something Harlan Ellison has turned into an art form). On the surface, Houses Without Doors Houses Without Doors comprises three novellas, three short stories, and seven briefer pieces of short-shorts and what is now called "flash" fiction. But-like Hemingway's comprises three novellas, three short stories, and seven briefer pieces of short-shorts and what is now called "flash" fiction. But-like Hemingway's In Our Time In Our Time (hence my almost blaming him) or Russell Banks' (hence my almost blaming him) or Russell Banks' Trailerpark Trailerpark-it was much more tightly focused and unified in theme than readers were accustomed to seeing in a genre collection. The "Interlude" pieces between the stories did not really stand on their own, but seemed more like smaller pieces of a bigger puzzle (which they were). And the stories themselves read as if they all sprang from a single core obsession, one that initially seemed to have little in common with the briefer pieces surrounding them. But as the reader delved further into the heart of the collection, the connections began to reveal themselves like fog-shrouded figures walking slowly into the glow of streetlight. The effect was (and still is) stunning. For all intents and purposes, Straub had had reinvented the wheel of how a writer of dark fiction could go about presenting his or her stories in a collection. The template set down in reinvented the wheel of how a writer of dark fiction could go about presenting his or her stories in a collection. The template set down in Houses Without Doors Houses Without Doors remains unequaled. (And I say this as one who attempted to adapt that template for my first collection, remains unequaled. (And I say this as one who attempted to adapt that template for my first collection, Things Left Behind Things Left Behind. Looking at that collection now, I think I was about 75-80% successful, though lacking Straub's profound subtlety.) Which brings us to Fran Friel and her debut collection that you now hold in your hands.

Whether it was her intention or not (and part of me suspects it was), Fran, instead of endeavoring to echo exactly Straub's template (as I tried to do), has used it as a jumping-off point, and as a result made it her own, including not only stories and novellas, but short-shorts, flash pieces, and some truly exquisite poetry along the way. The end result is dazzling-and a little mystifying. Dazzling because she writes with the confidence of a seasoned author; mystifying because you can't help but wonder how such a vibrant, funny, compa.s.sionate, and lovely human being could create some of the nastiness nastiness that's between these covers. (If you doubt that this books gets nasty, read "Close Shave" and see if you don't wince. In that's between these covers. (If you doubt that this books gets nasty, read "Close Shave" and see if you don't wince. In 55 words 55 words she manages to hit harder than some writers can in five thousand.) she manages to hit harder than some writers can in five thousand.) That's the thing, if you ever have the chance to meet Fran-she is one of the most radiant radiant people I've ever encountered. Seriously. Her face actually people I've ever encountered. Seriously. Her face actually glows glows with her love of life, her love of reading, of writing, her love for her friends, a good meal, a good film, a certain pa.s.sage from a piece of music. She's got a laugh that rings like fine crystal ... there ought to be a law against a person being with her love of life, her love of reading, of writing, her love for her friends, a good meal, a good film, a certain pa.s.sage from a piece of music. She's got a laugh that rings like fine crystal ... there ought to be a law against a person being this this happy. happy.

But it is, I think, this happiness, this total, pa.s.sionate, almost evangelical joy for existence that fuels her fire; it is this very thing that makes her strong enough to access its darker and unsettling counterparts. Fran is a big believer that speculative fiction, in all of its forms, is the supreme mythic literature of our time, and that belief is on full display in Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales. Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales.

But seeing-or in this case, reading reading-is believing, so I offer you what is to my mind the core image of this collection, taken from "Beach of Dreams," a brilliant, hallucinatory, mesmerizing dark fantasy that could, methinks, hold its own in the company of an Ellison tale. The central character of "Beach," Simon Rodan, an anthropologist who is living among the natives of an unidentified island, is taking pictures of mysterious, giant figures whose bodies have washed up on the beach: "Fumbling inside his vest, Simon tried to protect his camera from the rain with a baggie. He ran up and down the s.p.a.ces between the lifeless giants, snapping pictures, desperate to doc.u.ment the incredible images. He felt a strange split in his mind-focusing on the task at hand and an eerie concern for what he was witnessing. What was he witnessing?" What was he witnessing?"

Indeed that last line-What was he witnessing?-could very well be the reader's mantra as he or she moves through the singular, unified experience of this collection. Like the flashes revealed to Simon in the brief burst of camera-light-each small glimpse hints at the majesty of the unseen whole, and (as if to echo the quote from R.F. Wexler at the beginning of this introduction), they have no choice but to find their way through. Along the way, perhaps, something in or of their world-view will be changed.

Pieces of a larger whole.

Now, I called the above-quoted pa.s.sage the central image image of the collection, not the central obsession that in the end unifies everything. of the collection, not the central obsession that in the end unifies everything. That That would be the pain (physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual) that is part and parcel of familial obligation, be it the family one is born into, or the family that one a.s.sembles for one's self throughout life. would be the pain (physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual) that is part and parcel of familial obligation, be it the family one is born into, or the family that one a.s.sembles for one's self throughout life.

And in the middle of all of this is "Mama's Boy," the tour-de-force novella that earned Fran a Bram Stoker Award nomination for Outstanding Achievement in Long Fiction. It is the thematic centerpiece of this collection, in which virtually all of the themes grappled with in the other fictions and poems are touched upon. I'm not going to spoil it for you by talking about any of its plot-aside from saying, "Frank's back!"-but I will say this much: upon second reading, it remains a work of terrible insight (and I mean that as a compliment) and unnerving power. A shattering study of unearned guilt and what happens when one takes familial obligation to an unspeakable extreme, it is simultaneously horrifying and heartbreaking ... and surprisingly funny in a few places. (Lest you start to think that all contained herein is Doom and Gloom, Doom and Gloom, check out "Under the Dryer" for a beautiful example of Fran's humor; you'll laugh, but you're going to feel so dirty dirty about it.) about it.) Then there are pieces like "Special Prayers," wherein Fran displays her deft touch at the surreal, opening with yet another image that is arguably iconic to this collection: "Babies fell from the skies over Eastville. They bounced, they bled, but none cried. Their silence was eerie-their tiny bodies splatted and split open as they hit the rooftops, the road, and the sidewalks of our little street. For miles and miles, the sky was full of falling babies, dark blots against the blue."

And there is heartbreak, also; "Orange and Golden," is a brief story, but its lingering effect still haunts me, weeks after having first read it.

With this collection, Fran Friel accomplishes what all serious writers of dark fiction strive for: she entertains, she instills honest emotion by filtering her own sensibilities through those of her characters, and she leaves the reader with more than a little food for thought afterward. We may not be able to put into words an exact explanation of what we have witnessed, but we emerge richer for the experience, perhaps even with our world-view slightly altered.

What are we witnessing?

The beginning of a long and grand writing career.

I have kept you long enough, so it's time to do what I was asked to do.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to introduce you to Fran Friel.

Gary A. Braunbeck Lost in Ohio May, 2008 [Back to Table of Contents]

For my dad, Casper Thank you for teaching me to wonder, wander and work hard.

[Back to Table of Contents]

BEACH OF DREAMS.

With dawn still hours away, the storm howled in the cavernous s.p.a.ces between the carca.s.ses on the beach. Simon Rodan's lantern swayed in the wind, casting a dance of wan light and shadows on the giant forms, impossible to see them in their entirety from his vantage. Beached giants Beached giants was all he could think when he saw the dark, lifeless shapes crowding the sh.o.r.e. Koma, the villager who had alerted him to the disaster, huddled with the other fisherman around the fire in the cooking shelter between the palm trees. They stayed well away from the bodies on the beach. was all he could think when he saw the dark, lifeless shapes crowding the sh.o.r.e. Koma, the villager who had alerted him to the disaster, huddled with the other fisherman around the fire in the cooking shelter between the palm trees. They stayed well away from the bodies on the beach.

Simon overcame the initial shock of the scene, his training as a researcher kicking in. Stomping through the sand, he pulled tools and specimen bags from the pockets of his tattered khaki vest. He took samples of blue and green skin, and some brown, the texture of lizard skin, and he clipped small pieces from golden fish scales the size of dinner plates. Winded from climbing around dozens of bodies in the heavy storm, Simon pushed on, cutting pieces of billowing wet fabric: white linen; colored polka dots; black silk. And finally, with heavy wire cutters, he snipped bits of bright red hair and brown fur, the strands as thick as cables.

Fumbling inside his vest, Simon tried to protect his camera from the rain with a baggie. He ran up and down the s.p.a.ces between the lifeless giants, snapping pictures, desperate to doc.u.ment the incredible images. He felt a strange split in his mind-focusing on the task at hand and an eerie concern for what he was witnessing. What was he witnessing? What was he witnessing?

One thing he knew for certain: to see and doc.u.ment the full extent of what lay on the beach, he needed to get up above the scene somehow. He finished collecting his samples and photos and trudged through the rain to the gathering of fishermen in the shelter. The men spoke with hushed voices and animated hands, the smoke from their fire swirling around them like demons.

"Koma," he said, breathless, "can you get me up to the cliffs by sun-up?"

Koma searched Simon's face as if looking for a way to answer. Without replying, he turned to the gathering of men and whispered something that Simon did not quite hear. A biting exchange ran through the circle, with Koma shaking his head adamantly. Still struggling with the native tongue, the speed of the exchange left Simon with only a few words-sacrifice, twenty years, and something about hungry nightmares. None of it made sense.

Against loud dissent from the other men, Koma finally replied.

"No, Mr. Simon, too much danger in the night. Spirits come here to feast. You no leave beach. Wait until spirits go."

Simon was momentarily unnerved by the anger of the men. The normally genial villagers rarely raised their voices. Shaking off the knowledge that he was somehow the cause of the unrest, he turned his attention to Koma.

"Look, I need to get up high so I can see exactly what's on that beach. Whatever they are, they're not spirits, Koma. They're dead, cold bodies."

He continued to argue with the man, trying to convince him of the importance of this find to his career-to his life-but Koma shook his head, adamant in his decision.

Simon was furious with the fisherman. Not long after his arrival on the island, he'd saved Koma's wife from a raging infection in a wound on her foot. With a few doses of antibiotics from his medicine kit, Peka recovered in a matter of days. Since then, Koma, Peka, and their son, Paulo, treated Simon like family. They insisted he move into their meager home, and though he'd hardly noticed over the months in their company, the gentle manner and the kindness of the family had begun to soften his long-held numbness to the world. But at the moment, this history seemed unimportant-Koma would not help him. Undeterred, Simon stomped off to find someone, anyone, who would guide him to Pahulu Pali Pahulu Pali, the Nightmare Cliffs.

With news from the beach spreading fast, villagers arrived carrying ceremonial drums, torches, and food for a feast. Large and small shelters made of palm leaves were erected to protect them from the storm as they prepared their vigil. A group of elder women built a crude altar of stones, heaping it with fruits, flowers and dried fish. Then their low sing-song chanting began as they filed toward the giant forms at the sea's edge, wind and rain whipping at their hair and clothing, their arms loaded with more offerings to the spirits. The sound of their chanting was soon lost in the wind as they moved farther from the protection of the palms.

The elder men gathered around the fire with their drums and a slow, hypnotic beat began. Still in search of a guide to the cliffs, Simon watched the scene with great interest. He was torn. Although this unrecorded tribal behavior could be key to substantiating his beleaguered theories on tribal mind, doc.u.menting the extraordinary scene on the beach would be a career maker-he really had no choice. Disregarding Koma's warnings, he turned back to his task of securing a guide.

In concentric circles around the fire, the villagers gathered, swaying, humming, clicking abalone sh.e.l.ls in counterpoint to the sound of the drums. Others held vigil with low droning chants at the altar erected by the elder women. Soaked to the skin, Simon slogged through the sand from villager to villager, without success. Curiously, he noticed the mild trance state the natives were experiencing and suspected the cause was a narcotic effect from the leathery slivers of bark being distributed for chewing. Each time a piece was pa.s.sed to him, he tucked it away into one of his vest pockets-an excellent addition to his research samples. Some of the villagers appeared more lucid, always the elders it seemed, and when he approached them they kissed his cheeks in the custom of grat.i.tude, which perplexed Simon. Still, none stopped to offer a.s.sistance for his journey or explain what the ceremony was about. Most simply smiled, pointed in the direction of the path leading into the jungle, and returned their attention to the ceremony. Everyone, it seemed, had their part.

With no guide, Simon knew that precious time was ticking away. He feared the storm that brought the bodies to sh.o.r.e might wash them back into the surf with the changing tide. With the wind-blown rain stinging his face, he slumped down on a fallen palm trunk. The sound of the pounding drums wrapped around him, intensifying his weariness from his long months on the island. He had sacrificed much of his life for his career. So much time lost with his late wife, Karen. She'd believed in him and his work. An uncommon pang of regret rang in his heart, and he pushed it away as he always did. But the estrangement from his son, Ethan, was a shadow that kept his guilt fresh, sapping his energy, his hope, and what vigor was left for his work. But this trip to the island was a gift. A few of his old supporters at the Foundation still believed him. This was his last chance to salvage his career before he was doomed to a dull academic life in the cla.s.sroom of a third-rate university.

The morose att.i.tude wasn't helping, so Simon shoved away his old concerns and buried the feelings-a skill he had honed since childhood. This was the break he'd been waiting for, and he needed to stay focused. The emergence of this undoc.u.mented ceremony alone was a huge breakthrough-but the forms on the beach? Such an event would put the anthropology community, not to mention the world, in a frenzy. He had to get this right. He had to get to those cliffs.

From his place on the log, Simon spotted Koma's son working on a shelter. Paulo, like most of the villagers, spoke English; a legacy of deceased missionaries and an odd number of reported shipwreck survivors evidenced by the graves of the haole haole, the white men, outside the village. Forcing his weary mind and body back into action, Simon approached the slender young man. He appeared more clear-eyed than the other villagers. With renewed hope, Simon reached up to hold a palm frond in place against the wind as the young man fastened it down.

"Paulo, I need your help." He raised his voice over the noise of the storm and the escalating sound of the drums. "I need a guide to the cliffs. Can you take me?"

"Pahulu Pali?" He shook his head. "Oh no, Father would be angry, Mr. Simon."

"Come on, Paulo, I'm sure your father wouldn't mind if you helped me out," he lied.

The boy hesitated. He'd followed Simon around like a puppy for months, fascinated by his work, his tools, and his foreign mannerisms. Simon knew he would do almost anything he asked.

"I sorry. No can help you." He looked away, lowering his eyes.

Simon's temper flared-What the h.e.l.l is wrong with these people? I just want to get up to the d.a.m.n cliffs! He took a deep breath and struggled to calm himself. He took a deep breath and struggled to calm himself.

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't want to ask you to do something that scared you. After all, you're just a boy." He didn't like manipulating the boy, but he was desperate.

Paulo stood tall, raising his chin as he spoke. "I am nearly grown. I not scared!"

Simon felt a pang-Paulo was so much like his own son, Ethan. Vexed by the intrusion of these feelings long buried, he pressed on.

"Then take me to the cliffs, Paulo." His tone was an unmasked challenge.

"No," said the boy, looking around, eager to change the subject. "I come here for akaku 'ili akaku 'ili-my first."

Simon remembered the leathery strips in his pocket. On a hunch he hedged his bet.

"So how is it? I haven't tried it yet myself."

The boy looked away, embarra.s.sed. "They no give it to me."

"No? Why not?" Simon resisted a knowing grin.

The boy mumbled his answer. "Not a man yet."

Bingo!

"Ah, now that doesn't seem fair at all," said Simon. "You certainly look man enough to me."

In fact, the boy was strong and tall for a village teen, but he was still awkward and immature. Reluctantly, Simon used this fact to his advantage. Huddling against the shelter, he motioned for Paulo to come closer.

"How about a trade?" he said. "You take me to the cliffs, and I'll give you akuku 'ili akuku 'ili." Simon pulled a handful of bark slivers from his pocket.

The boy's eyes widened. He looked around to see if anyone was listening, and after a brief flicker of guilt on his face, he said, "Okay, I take you ... but no tell father."

After some further negotiating, Simon handed over two small slivers of the bark, with a sincere promise from Paulo that he wouldn't chew it until they returned from their journey. Satisfied with this arrangement, they split up and hurried off to collect their gear and supplies for the climb to the Nightmare Cliffs.

The villagers swayed and chanted to the sound of the drums. Those outside the cooking shelter were oblivious to the rain and wind that blew through their flimsy palm shelters. With his heavy pack over his shoulder, Simon wove a path through the swaying crowd, the wet sand bogging down his shoes. He stopped to tap it loose when a cold hand shot out of the crowd and gripped his ankle. Caught by surprise, he nearly toppled over. A familiar face glowed up at him in the fire light, her wet hair ringed with pink orchids. Eyelids heavy with the effects of the akaku 'ili akaku 'ili, she nodded at Simon's pack. It was Peka.

"No ... leave ... beach," she said, still gripping his ankle.

His guilt for using Paulo flared. "I'll be back by tomorrow, Peka. Don't worry."

"No leave!" Peka struggled to her feet, grasping at his clothes.

Impatient with the interruption, Simon wanted to push her away along with the guilt he felt for tricking her son. Instead, he gently disengaged her hands.

Saving Peka's life had made them family, and he felt a strong kinship and tenderness toward her. Many times in the past she had inquired about his own family and the sadness she saw in his eyes, until finally, dispa.s.sionately, he had shared the details of his life. She could not understand his numbness and how his tears did not flow, considering his loss. So like his own wife, she would do anything to love and protect her family, her ohana ohana, the people she cherished, even Simon. With what little patience that remained before his journey to the cliffs, he guided Peka back to her spot in the circle.

The elder woman next to Peka said something harsh in their native tongue, chastising her and forcing her to focus on the ceremony. The old woman turned to Simon, and with a fierce squinty look, she thrust her chin toward the jungle. There it was again-somehow the natives all knew where he was heading-maybe word had spread that he was looking for a guide. At least no one tried to stop him, so Simon moved on toward the edge of the jungle, to the path that would lead him and Paulo to the cliffs.

The boy was there waiting with a fiery torch. Flickering against the wind and rain, its light cast ghoulish shadows across his face. Simon shivered at the sight and lifted his own bright lantern to dispel the shadows.

The boy smiled. "Come, Mr. Simon! It is long walk to Pahulu Pali Pahulu Pali."

Leaving the drumming and the memory of Peka's worried face behind, Simon followed the boy into the dense jungle.

Trekking high up the side of the jungle cliff, the thick canopy m.u.f.fled the noise of the storm. Rain collected into rivulets along thick tree trunks and leaves, falling in fat drops like pebbles from the foliage. The deeper into the jungle they traveled the steamier the air became, making it hard to breathe, but Simon plodded on, trying to keep up with Paulo's youthful stride. As they drew nearer to the cliffs, the jungle became quieter. Trudging along, he glanced into the dark canopy-the jungle was devoid of the usual cacophony of animals and insects. After the relentless noise of the storm, the silence unnerved Simon, but it was more than the absence of sound. Lifting his lantern to the darkness above, he saw a flash of gold and glowing eyes blinking all around him in the foliage. He was startled by the sight, and with his attention off the trail, he tripped over a thick root. To catch his balance he grabbed at a smooth-barked tree, where his fingers sunk deep into a layer of warm, sticky slime. He yanked his hand free with a sense of revulsion, the stench of the substance making him instantly nauseated. Scanning the jungle nervously, he did his best to rub the slime off his hand onto wet leaves and moss, but the stench remained.

The eyes seemed to have disappeared, but Paulo had pulled far ahead of him. He rushed to catch up, not really admitting to himself that he didn't want to be alone on the trail. When he finally reached the boy, Paulo made a face at the foul smell wafting around Simon. The boy picked up his pace to get away from the smell. Simon said nothing about the eyes-it must have simply been a trick of the light in the wet leaves.

After an hour of hiking in a cloud of rank odor, Simon felt lightheaded. His sense of smell had never been keen, but it seemed that things in the jungle were different somehow.

"Paulo." The boy was again out of sight ahead on the trail. "I need a break."

He could hear Paulo stomping through the foliage, but there was no reply. They'd been hiking for hours, and Simon knew they should be near the entrance to the cliffs. It would be dawn in a few short hours. The boy was probably eager to get to the top, but Simon needed to stop. He would catch up with Paulo as soon as he did something about the putrid odor on his hand. By the light of his lantern, he dropped his pack and unhooked the canteen. After a couple of lukewarm swallows he nearly swooned. Must be the heat and exhaustion catching up with me ... or this d.a.m.n stink. Must be the heat and exhaustion catching up with me ... or this d.a.m.n stink. Shaking off the feeling, he dug his hands down into the wet jungle soil, rubbing the dark mud over his skin in hopes of removing the reek left from the tree slime. He glanced up at the trail ahead, but no longer heard Paulo moving through the jungle. Shaking off the feeling, he dug his hands down into the wet jungle soil, rubbing the dark mud over his skin in hopes of removing the reek left from the tree slime. He glanced up at the trail ahead, but no longer heard Paulo moving through the jungle.

"Paulo?" he shouted.

Still crouching on the ground, wringing his hands with the mud, he felt the gritty paste turn slippery. When he looked down, his hands were awash in a thick red liquid-blood. Simon gasped. Alarmed, he checked to see if he was injured, but found no cuts or gashes on his hands.

Then the whispering started. It came like a buzz in the center of his head, unintelligible but relentless. Simon grabbed his lantern and held it high, searching the shadows of the forest in an attempt to find where the sound was coming from. He turned in every direction, but the noise remained constant. Finally, Simon covered his ears-the sound was still there, inside his head. At that moment, Paulo came crashing down the trail toward him.

"Mr. Simon, we here before," he shouted. Worry etched the boy's usually carefree features. "I see Sister Fork tree ahead on path and we pa.s.sed her long time ago. We go in circle."

Disoriented by Paulo's news and worried about the whispering in his head and the blood on his hands, Simon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what was happening. After a moment, he noticed the feel of grit on his palms. Opening his eyes, he saw that the blood was gone and the wet jungle soil was all that covered his skin. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the canteen and dowsed the mud from his hands, rubbing them dry on his pants. I've got to get a grip here I've got to get a grip here. He tried to ignore the buzzing in his head, to stay calm, but his irritation sizzled. Finally, he looked up at the frantic boy.