Travis's Tours

Travis's Tours

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Four days have passed, one
after another, like lettuce leaves being scraped against a grater. If
what I feel is ennui then it is because of the perception of boredom,
rather than boredom itself. Things are happening.

class="c148">    Torn and Travis are outside
spray painting the sea-plane and I am inside the warehouse deciding on
the exact location of the interior walls.

class="c148">    Behind me, the radio booms,
tuned as it has been since the European quake, to Rhodesian FM. The
news is bad I guess, although I cannot understand a word. There is
something in the tone of the presenter that provides comfort, as if his
words are a scaffold upon which to hang existence.

class="c148">    I take a final step, mark a spot
on the floor with a piece of chalk, and turn as I hear Torn
calling.

class="c148"> 

**

class="c148">  

After the dim interior of the
warehouse the sunlight seems not of this Earth.

class="c148">    "What do you think?" says
Torn.

class="c148">    His body is white like underside
of snow, the muscles of his chest smooth as goose eggs. I am wondering
how to put this meaning into words when I realise he is referring not
to himself but the sea-plane which nods gently on the tide's
surge.

class="c148">    The plane is a cerulean
sea-green and in stand-out lattice like letters on the side is printed,
'Travis's Tours'.

class="c148">    "That'll be the name of our
business," says Travis, first his head, then his whole body appearing
out of the nearside door. "It has a ring to it, don't you
think?"

class="c148">    I think there are three of us
and only one name but from a marketing point of view I can see his
point. The smartest businesses are often the snappiest ones, that is
the nature of a brand conscious society.

class="c148">    "Tonight we will prepare the
whale songs," says Torn.

class="c148">    "Where there are whale songs
there are bound to be whales," says Travis.

class="c148">    I look from one to the other of
them. They are as alike as two peas in a pod only somehow strangely
different.

class="c148">    I am on the point of asking what
key these songs will be in when I hear the squeal of tyres of gravel
behind me and the tensing of brakes. I spin around and there is Spud,
our paperboy.

class="c148">    "I can see three willies," he
says, pulling a paper out of his sack like it's a gun at the OK
Corral.

class="c148">    "I'm sorry," I say and try to
think of a reason for our nudity. There is none, except that it has
become a habit, a free exploitation of the warm winds brought in by the
Gulf Stream.

class="c148">    "Three little willies all in a
row," says Spud and he laughs without offence. After all, Spud is ten
and such things are amusing to him.

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**

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Travis is preparing
hr?tspungur, ram's testicles pickled in whey, I am told with an
undercurrent of glee. Torn and I are bunched over the tape recorder.
Torn is doing most of the whale singing while I am involved in pressing
either play or record.

class="c148">    Torn finishes a particularly
lonesome song, like a jazz riff stretched taut by the hands of a giant,
and tells me that this song belongs to the male narwhal.

class="c148">    "They have the longest nose of
all the whales," he says, "and they are almost the most jealous. After
they have mated they cannot bear the female to be near another mammal.
They have been known to kill humans although biologically they are
practically vegetarian."

class="c148">    "Grub's up," says
Travis.

class="c148">    We eat with the radio on and as
I take my last bite of testicle I ask Travis if he could
translate.

class="c148">    For four days we have had
stories of whole countries wiped out, lone survivors clinging to the
top of the Eiffel Tower, two million children drowned at the drop of a
hat but today Travis surprises me.

class="c148">    "It's a feel-good story," he
says. "A giraffe has been spotted by the boy soldiers of the Dinka
tribe. Giraffes have not been seen on the Dinka homelands since the
Moslem hordes descended from Khartoum and cut swathes across the
forests, burning all before them. The Dinka soldiers say the giraffe is
a symbol of peace. They have agreed to lay down their arms and talk to
the official government."

class="c148">    Out of the corner of my eye I
notice Torn rubbing at the corner of his eyes.

class="c148">    "A giraffe has been
spotted," he says. "Oh yes, that's very good. Very good
indeed."

class="c148">    I am wondering how to take this
humour amidst so much devastation when I notice a figure at the doorway
of the warehouse. He has hair cut in a pudding-bowl and eyes large like
saucers.

class="c148">    "I am the father of Spud," he
says.

class="c148">    I take a deep breath. I imagine
Spud has been talking. I expect this will be about our willies. Some
people can handle them better than others.

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**

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It is not about willies. Spud's
father's name is Kwong. He is Estonian Chinese by birth although now
living in Iceland.

class="c148">    "I was forced to flee my home
eight years ago. The Communist government decided the research project
my wife and I were working on was no longer something they wanted to
throw their shoulder at. I fear that they are using the confusion
caused by the earthquake to get back at me. You see, my wife she has
disappeared. I found only this."

class="c148">    Kwong holds out a note. On it is
scrawled a single word. 'Grimsey'.

class="c148">    "I don't get it," I
say.

class="c148">    Torn stands like a rock and
snatches the scrap of paper in an earth-like movement.

class="c148">    "Grimsey is an island off
north-eastern Iceland," he says. "Because of the jagged nature of the
rocks which surround it, it is only accessible by plane."

class="c148">    Travis claps his hands with a
smack. "I do say, I think we've got our first customer." He laughs.
"For a fee, we will take you to this island."

class="c148">    Kwong's eyes open wider and he
raises a finger like a pointer. "Is that a penguin?" he
says.

class="c148">    I nod. "Yes."

class="c148">    In this world, that is one thing
I am sure of. 'That' is a penguin.

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**

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The penguin is in the
jump-seat, impassively staring down at the waters below. Kwong paid in
American dollars and he didn't mind, the addition of what is
essentially, a nautical animal.

class="c148">    "He can't hinder me in my search
for my wife," he said, "and he may help."

class="c148">    I understand this thinking. As a
man of science, Kwong sees the addition of penguin as something of an
experiment.

class="c148">    Torn is engaged in an experiment
of his own. He has rigged a number of speakers along the wings and the
whale song booms out across tips of the waves. His nose is pressed
against the window and the area around his lips is coated with
steam.

class="c148">    "Do you see any whales?" I
say.

class="c148">    Almost imperceptibly he shakes
his head. "We're going too fast. When we do this for real we'll have to
fly past and come about. I think we'll need to inflate the dinghy. That
way we can get real close."

class="c148">    "Won't it be
dangerous?"

class="c148">    "Nature is dangerous," says
Torn, "and also beautiful. What is life in a box?"

class="c148">    I sink back against the leather
of my seat and pull my belt tighter. I think of the warehouse on the
concrete jetty a stone's throw from the water. My role in this, I've
decided, will be a shore based one. I will scout out new customers and
prepare cups of steaming tea for the newly departed and arrived. It
will be a job.

class="c148">    I am almost asleep when Torn
jabs a finger into my ribcage and tells me that Grimsey is fast
approaching.

class="c148">    The tone of the engines changes
and Travis leans slightly to the left. Kwong's saucer-like eyes open
wider and I see that nervously, he is playing with the penguin's
ears.

class="c148">    Out of the window, like a wall
you didn't order at the end of the garden, massive cliffs
loom.

class="c148">    "In Icelandic legend," shouts
Travis from the front, "Grimsey is inhabited by trolls and
giants."

class="c148">    "It is the only part of Iceland
in the Artic Circle," says Torn.

class="c148">    "Why would she come here?" says
Kwong.

class="c148">    The plane hits the water running
and it is all I can do not to scream. I wonder only what will happen
next and then, what will happen in the end.

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**

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Somehow we have landed within
the circle of formidable rocks. Travis has thrown the dingy into the
water and he is standing in the doorway busily inflating it with a foot
pump.

class="c148">    Kwong looks agitated. He has a
mobile phone in his hand and he is shaking it wildly.

class="c148">    "I thought once we got this
close I would be able to contact her."

class="c148">    Torn points towards the roof of
the plane, or perhaps, through it.

class="c148">    "Satellites are kaput," he says.
"That is part of the larger problem."

class="c148">    Kwong throws the mobile phone
down towards the floor. It hits the edge of his seat, rebounds off the
meal tray and lands exactly back in the centre of his palm. In a
roundabout way this seems to calm him down.

class="c148">    "What exactly was it that you
and your wife were researching?" I ask.

class="c148">    Kwong reaches into a pocket and
takes out a pair of lime green spectacles. He puts these on and somehow
they have the effect of making his eyes smaller.

class="c148">    "Ever since I was a small child
I have been fascinated by space. By the age of eight I could name every
star in our solar system. And those that didn't have names, I named
myself. It was my belief that somewhere, out there, were sentient
beings.

class="c148">    "This became my life's work. I
was supported in this by my government. They thought that, after all,
where there are sentient beings, weapons are not far behind.

class="c148">    "Then things changed. Communists
countries crumbled and they had to look for a new face. They looked for
this in the West. My position became untenable so I fled along with my
wife and my son, Spud, your paperboy.

class="c148">    "It would have been ok except I
took with me certain key documents. This earthquake represents a
seismic change in the status quo. I think my former government wants
these documents back."

class="c148">     The
planes gives a fillip and Travis places two hands in a cone around his
mouth.

class="c148">    "All ashore that's going
ashore," he shouts.

class="c148">    We climb into the dingy like
eggs going into a box. It is only as we are halfway to the shore and I
feel the beginning of an ache in my arms as I paddle furiously, that I
sense the absence of the penguin.

class="c148">    I am on the point of saying
something when haphazardly I look up. I see two things that surprise
me.

class="c148">    The first is the penguin
standing quietly on the shore. The second is the woman of Chinese
appearance standing quietly next to it.

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**

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As the nose of the dinghy hits
the shore with a sound like sherbet left out in the rain, the Chinese
woman lifts the wide sleeve of her left arm and manages to stare both
at her watch and Kwong simultaneously.

class="c148">    "What took you so long?" she
says. "I was expecting you three minutes ago."

class="c148">    Kwong falls knee-first to the
floor and tosses his mobile phone high into the air. This appears to be
either a gesture of supplication or affirmation.

class="c148">    "And what of the communists?" is
the first thing he can say.

class="c148">    "Didn't you get my
letter?"

class="c148">    Kwong carefully stands himself
up. The penguin shifts closer to the woman. Kwong reaches into his
pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper with the word we have all
silently memorised.

class="c148">    "Exactly," says the woman,
"Grimsey." She holds out her arms. "And here I am. And here you all
are. No communists." She narrows her eyes and looks directly at Torn.
"Unless you are one?"

class="c148">    "I have tendencies," says Torn,
"but have always been reluctant to go the whole hog."

class="c148">     This seems to satisfy the
woman. "Come. Come," she says. "We have an awfully big adventure ahead
of us."

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**

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It is later. Above our heads
the stars are out. We are sitting cross-legged around a campfire Torn
has hastily thrown together and lit by scraping a blunt rock across the
sole of his left shoe.

class="c148">    After some general conversation
about the Earthquake situation in Europe and how tired our legs are
after the trek to the interior of the island, Qwock, Kwong's wife,
pulls an Apple Ibook out of her cloak and fires it up. For a few
moments her fingers fly above the keys like half inch nails being fired
from an electronic staple gun. She looks up and tells us to gather
round.

class="c148">    "It happened on the night of the
Earthquake," says Qwock. "I was surfing the database of astrometrix.com
when I noticed an unearthly parabola stretching across the midnight
sky. The world's eyes were averted, caught up as they were, but I
followed the trail."

class="c148">    The picture on the screen of the
Ibook segues in and then out and there for us all to see is an aerial
shot of the island we are currently on. In the centre of it is a red
flashing x.

class="c148">    "I had to know what it was. I
wrote my husband a letter and I set off for the island."

class="c148">    Torn squeezes the knee of my one
good leg. "And what do you think it is?"

class="c148">    Qwock and Kwong's eyes fix and
they say the word at the same time.

class="c148">    "Aliens."

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**

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I fall asleep to the background
fuzz of Qwock and Kwong's conversation. They are clearly excited by the
possibility of aliens. It is, as they say, their dream. I wonder about
my own dreams. The previous evening Torn told me that I had repeated
the word, 'Snoopy' over and over in my sleep. I have no idea what this
means. And perhaps this is what I truly believe, that I have no
understanding of anything. What is all this for?

class="c148">    In the morning I am woken by
Qwock. She is standing over me and gently prodding me with the end of a
branch.

class="c148">    "It is light," she says, "we
must get on."

class="c148">    Torn awakes too and rubs his
eyes. I can feel his erection pressing into my left thigh.

class="c148">    "How are you paying us?" he
says.

class="c148">    Qwock pulls on a pair of
triangular orange glasses. "I am a lady of science," she
says.

class="c148">    "And I am a businessman," says
Torn.

class="c148">    I fear the whole thing will get
ugly when Kwong appears holding out a tight bundle of American hundred
dollar bills.

class="c148">    We clear the camp quickly and
set off. Our general direction appears to be upwards and inwards and a
deep recess of me recalls school and learning about Hannibal and his
elephants. Like a ghost though, I can't remember how it
ends.

class="c148">    Snippets of conversation from
the two scientists slip back to us as we walk. Some words I recognise
and some I don't. Some of the words don't sound like words at all. They
sound like runes would do if they were ever spoken.

class="c148">    The sun goes up and up and I
begin to worry about the penguin. I doubt that he has ever walked this
far. I am on the point of suggesting that we stop when we
stop.

class="c148">     There
are trees in a ring. In the centre of the ring is the debris of a
smashed craft. Shards of it glitter in the light and I am reminded of a
candelabra in the glory days of the ocean liner.

class="c148">    "At last," says Qwock, "after
our years of searching, we have found it." She takes off her triangular
glasses and claps her hands together. "God surely does move in
mysterious ways."

class="c148">    "If you could keep back," says
Kwong and he puts his hands out like he is about to push a
wall.

class="c148">    Something I haven't noticed
before, but which now catches my attention like a flag, is a blue light
that stretches up from the centre of the wreckage, up into the sky. I
follow it as far as I can with my eyes but I lose sight of it, in the
heavens, or beyond perhaps even that.

class="c148">     "Keep
back," says Kwong again although as far as I can see nobody has moved
an inch.

class="c148">    Qwock turns towards Kwong. "What
did Howard Carter say of the blue light?"

class="c148">    Kwong replies as if reading from
a book. "In 1891 a young Englishman arrived like a bullet in the place
we call Egypt. He was convinced that there remained one temple that had
yet to be discovered and that this temple belonged to the greatest of
all kings.

class="c148">    "The search was long, the result
was clear. A tablet was found and on it the words were inscribed the
following words:

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class="c148">     class='c149'>Death Shall Come on Swift Wings To Him Who Disturbs the
Peace of the King.

class="c148">   

class="c148">    "The
words appeared to act as a warning. But words like these are designed
to be ignored. By their very nature, they invite examination. They act
as a distraction.

class="c148">    "What is little known and was
never talked about was emanating from the tablet, also, was a crystal
clear blue light. Carter recorded this in his diary. He said how it
appeared to be, not of this Earth. Those were his exact words, 'not of
this Earth'

class="c148">    "That day, under the beating
Egyptian sun, two of Carter's servants stepped towards the light,
perhaps not sure of its significance, perhaps drawn to it like lambs to
a flock.

class="c148">    "And as they stepped into it,
one by one, they disappeared.

class="c148">    "Of course the tomb discovered
belonged to Tutankamen, great riches were discovered there, the two
servants were insignificant, and of course, like many people in
history, their story was forgotten. Or almost?"

class="c148">    Qwock spins on a heel and turns
to face us. "What our research has shown us is that Carter's notes in
his journal were right. The blue light was alien. It is our belief that
it leads to an alien outworld and that great things will be learnt
there."

class="c148">    Qwock holds out a
hand.

class="c148">    "Come husband, it is
time."

class="c148">    Kwong takes the hand and they
take a step forward together. The blue light shimmers.

class="c148">    Something comes to
me.

class="c148">    "Wait," I say. "What about
Spud?"

class="c148">    Qwock purses her lips. I am not
sure if she will put on her glasses or take them off.

class="c148">    "Madeline Albright stated that
the death of a quarter of a million Iraqi children was worth it to end
the rule of a evil tyrant. Europe currently lies in tatters. Spud will
not die. He is a resilient boy. But this light, it is our destiny. I am
a mother, I am not heartless, but I have made a choice, and when
history looks back it will remember me and not my treatment of my son.
That is how history works."

class="c148">   I take a step forward, I feel Torn's
hand on my shoulder, the penguin squawks, there is a blinding flash and
then nothing. Or rather not nothing.

class="c148">    Qwock and Kwong have
gone.

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**

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The plane skims the waves. Torn
has set the tape to play and the sounds of the whale song boom out
across the ocean. The plane seems empty without Qwock and Kwong, but
then, maybe this is how it will often be. People will come, people will
go and we will remain. And the penguin.

class="c148">    As the planes scoops to a
landing I feel, strangely, a sense of home-coming. I think that after
our expedition I can slip into a nice warm bed with Torn. However,
standing next to the warehouse is a figure and I figure we have trouble
straight off.

class="c148">    "Hello Spud," I say.

class="c148">    "Your paper," he says, holding
out the evening edition of the Keflavik Monitor. On the front is a
photo of a devastated London Zoo. An elephant stands forlornly knee
deep in turgid water. "Where's dad? Did you find mum?"

class="c148">    I look at Torn and he nods, the
warehouse after all is large. I put a hand on Spud's shoulder and guide
him inside. What is one more displaced child amidst so many?

class="c148">    Torn says it is his turn to cook
and Travis and Spud and I sit in front of the radio and Travis
translates the latest from Rhodesian FM.

class="c148">    As I still can't understand I
don't know if the news is good or bad.