by Ted Bernard
Instead of leaving immediately, he announced, “We’ve got time for a few finishing touches. I’ll return to the site. Melissa and Astrid come with me. Samantha and Em make your way back to Abby and Hannah. Wait for us there.”
Just as Melissa and Astrid had tipped the last of the portalets, Astrid quipping, “This could lead to some serious constipation,” they heard three owl calls in rapid succession, repeated a second time. Boss, at the other side of the lot, banging away at tires, failed to pick up the signal. Astrid bolted across the site toward him. She shook his shoulder, “Distress call coming from the ledge!”
“Aw, damn!” Boss returned a quick fox call and grabbed Astrid by the elbow. “Quick! Go get Melissa and meet me outside the fence.” He gathered his tools, stopped momentarily to clip wires on a light tower, and ran to the cut.
In less than five minutes, all three were outside the fence charging full speed toward the ledge. As they approached, Boss fox-called again. I returned with a single owl response. The three slowed to a trot and stopped at the scree slope. Hearing us on the ledge above, Boss let out a sigh of relief. Nobody missing. “Why the distress?” he called up.
“Come up,” I replied in hushed tones.
They climbed up in single file: Boss and Melissa, followed by Astrid. Astrid heard Boss, exclaim, “Holy shit!” and Melissa say, “Criminy Jane!”
“What is it?” Astrid gasped.
She clambered up onto the ledge to find Samantha, Abby, Em and me sitting in a little circle, all in lotus position, calm as the night wind. Gradually, as Asrid’s eyes adjusted, she perceived a form in Samantha’s lap: a toddler, a girl of no more than two and some months perhaps, in soiled footie pajamas, not stirring a muscle, sound asleep, her eyes behind lids with long curled lashes: an angelically proportioned waif, a Blackwood Forest emissary, a caramel-colored spirit being.
“Wherefore this angel?” she asked, calling up an ancient sage of some sort.
“We have no fucking idea,” replied Samantha, her pastor-kid vocabulary fading in direct proportion to her emerging authenticity. She tenderly stroked the girl’s matted hair.
“Where'd it … she come from?” repeated Boss. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re telling me,” I said. “We totally freaked-out when we heard rustling up the trail behind us. That’s when I issued the distress call. Then we heard gurgles and she came around the corner, toddled up, and sat down on that rock, unfazed like a little Buddha. She’s got lots of words. Most of them we can’t understand. And we couldn’t coax her to tell us where home might be. She seems to be calling herself Missy or Mazie or Macy.”
“Look at her! All scratches and bruises,” Samantha said, taking hold of the child’s little hands.
“My God, what a complication!” Melissa exclaimed.
“You ain’t just shittin',” Boss agreed.
“What should we do?” Em inquired. “Un petite fille sans maman. Très tragique!”
Expectantly, Em looked to Boss. He was mute, gazing blankly from woman to woman. He and Jo had never borne children. His history with children in Vietnam, as he confessed to our class, was horrendous. He had zero experience in looking after a live toddler. “Shit”, he repeated to himself shaking his head in confusion, his brain grappling with scenes of blood seeping from little corpses floating in rice paddies.
Astrid jumped into the breach. “We’ve got to get out of here! The sheriff may be back soon. Even if not, we need to vamoose. Look, I have no idea where this little girl came from. We don’t have time to find out. And we can’t just drop her off with the authorities, looking the way we do, having done what we just did. We’ve got no choice but to take her along with us. There will be something on line tonight or tomorrow about a missing child and somebody can bring her back. Meanwhile, she’s ours.”
“That stands to reason, as long as we’re not caught and charged with kidnapping,” Melissa said. “I know a thing or two about children. I would be the logical person to take her. But in my nosey neighborhood and with my own kids, the word would get out faster than you can say ‘power to the women’.” Melissa cast a look towards Boss. Still stupefied, he ignored her pilfered phrase. Of no one in particular, she asked, “Do you think this little waif could be sheltered in the village or in somebody’s house until tomorrow? I mean it would be for only a few hours.”
“What other choice do we have?” I asked.
“None,” replied Samantha. Taking the lead, she rose gingerly and began trudging up the trail, the child still asleep in her arms. The rest of us followed, Boss shambling along at the back. When we arrived at his truck, he broke out of his trance. He directed the unfurling and stowing of the camo and the return of his equipment and supplies. We climbed into the truck and proceeded with caution and without headlights back to Chestnut Ridge Road and the rendezvous site. It was after midnight.
Boss said, “Instead of taking the most direct route back to Argolis, follow me. I know the back roads that head north. We’ll cross the river up near Stiles Creek and then stay in West Virginia on 533 and 97 all the way south. Cross back over into Ohio at Jesphat. It will take longer, but there’s less chance of being stopped.”
Two hours later, when Melissa pulled up to The Eclipse Coffee Company, the child had begun to stir and whimper. She was hungry.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry/Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby,” sang Samantha, rocking the girl in her arms.
“Mama?” I asked.
With apologies, Em and Abby departed for their tents, leaving Astrid, Samantha, and me with the child at the edge of the occupy village. It was deathly quiet, no campus cops in sight. Astrid went straight to the food tent, gathered bread, cereal and milk. She returned to our tent. Inside, Frank and Nick snored in synchrony. The food quieted the little girl. She then proceeded on a solo expedition zigging around adjacent tents toward the food station.
“This isn’t going to work,” Astrid insisted. “This kid will become obvious. Campus police will notice. Then what?”
“What can we do?” Samantha wondered aloud.
“I have an idea,” Astrid said.
Samantha picked up the child.
13
TESTIMONY OF ADRIENNE FOSTER
Preamble
In a philosophy class on rhetoric I learned about testimony. A testimony is a person’s oral or written account of an event or state of affairs. A testimony has meaning and force not only because of its content and logic but also by the conclusions that are drawn. If I could, I would legally swear to this testimony, but under the circumstances I cannot do so. Events and people here could also be verified by witnesses whom I could supply. However, because time is of the essence and given my current limitations, I beg the reader to trust my judgment in the chronology that follows (matters of fact), the conclusions I draw, and the matters of opinion and actions that lead logically from them.
Matters of Fact
1. On October 15th of this year, I accompanied Mr. Jasper Morse from Argolis, Ohio USA to a then unknown destination. Ours was a sexual liaison for which he paid. Such encounters had occurred five times in the past twelve months. On all previous occasions, he drove me to his cabin in Bartholomew County, Ohio. This time, with no forewarning, he drove us to his corporate jet at the airport in Parkersburg, West Virginia and we were flown through the night to a tropical destination which turned out to be his vacation home on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. He told me that we would be keeping a low profile for several days. I had no means of communication with the outside world. I felt like a prisoner, admittedly in a spectacular villa overlooking the ocean.
2. On the third night, October 17th, it was obvious after dinner that we would have sex for the first time. Mr. Morse favored forms of BDSM, which had occasionally felt threatening. But I had previously held my own without serious consequences. This time, far from home, I sensed I was in for something more challenging. I therefore wrote a letter that day to Lara Hedlund a
t Gilligan University of Ohio. The letter informed her of my location and my fears about Morse’s intentions. I asked Mr. Morse’s chef, Josephine, to mail it for me from Charlotte Amalie. I assume she did.
3. What happened that night of October 17th was an encounter so violent and degrading that I can only think of it as murderous rape. All my conditioning and judo training, my only defenses against a man more than twice my weight, went for naught when I slipped on a rug and he pounced and ravaged me. Afterwards I was so bruised and bleeding, so damaged as a woman that I could hardly get off the floor. When I managed to do so and realized he had left the room, I forced my concussed brain to focus on escaping. I could not survive another attack. I staggered across the patio and into the garden outside his room. It was pitch dark. I blacked out in the grass. How long, I cannot say. When I awoke, a girl, probably Jacinta, Josephine’s daughter, was at my side. Although she did not see what had happened she must have heard my screams and she must have realized, even in the dark, how battered I was. She helped me get on my feet, but perhaps she then heard Morse stir inside the house. She ran away. I wobbled dizzily. I got sick. I staggered away from the villa. Instead of aiming toward the front gate, disoriented, I headed in the direction of the cliffs.
4. I have no memory of falling. My rescuers told me I was fortunate to have fallen into deep water (about 10 meters deep) rather than onto rocks or the small beach. Already battered and semi-conscious, the smack of the water was indescribable. It knocked the wind out of me but also brought me to full consciousness. From the impact my left knee was sprained and my right shoulder dislocated. A small bone in my left ankle was also chipped or fractured; it may have happened during the rape as did a fracture of my nose and cheek bone. So far, I have no hearing in my right ear.
5. What I remember from the impact onward is plunging deeply toward the ocean floor. The water rushed past me at an astonishing rate, washing up and over me, enveloping me. I remember taking in mouthfuls of seawater. I tried unsuccessfully to determine which way was up but I was disoriented and weak. Even if I could find “up” I was not sure I had the strength to get to the surface. I was wasting energy thrashing about and feeling delirious for oxygen; my ears were popping and my world was darkening. I was on the brink of passing out and giving up hope when I hit the sandy bottom and looked up. Despite my damaged leg, I pushed upward. I took in more seawater but then I remembered to hold my breath and allowed myself to rise. After what seemed an eternity, I broke the surface and drew my first breath, the sweetest of my life. I then puked up seawater and what remained of the contents of my stomach. I was alive. I kept afloat with my good arm and uninjured leg. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I spotted the white buoy to which the yacht had been attached. The yacht was gone. I slowly made my way toward the buoy and hung on for life.
6. Toward dawn, I found myself losing focus and weakening. I feared passing out and losing my grasp. There were thunderheads in the distance and occasional flashes of lightning. At that point, with alarm, I noted dorsal fins coming toward me. I assumed sharks. Had my blood attracted them? Several seemed to be encircling me and one came very close. I froze in fear. Much to my relief, I realized that, as these huge creatures surfaced, I was being encircled by dolphins not sharks. Then one, perhaps the alpha, circled within a meter of me. I submerged for a moment to come face to face with him. I could hear him communicating with the others, the clicks and clacks and whistles of their language. When I resurfaced, I saw the running lights of a fishing boat coming my way. They heard my calls and pulled me from the water. I had survived.
7. Later I was told the pod of dolphins had guided and escorted the fishermen from several kilometers at sea toward shore. They said it was not the first time dolphins had helped them rescue a human at sea.
8. Before my rescue, I would have been cynical about unconditional kindness and generosity flowing from such men as the captain of this vessel and his crew. Keep in mind that before the plunge, I was clothed only in underwear and a shawl. After I hit the water my bra and shawl were torn from my body. My rescuers, black Caribbeans all, pulled an almost naked bruised and bloody white woman out of the sea. They immediately rushed to their quarters to find blankets and garments for me. Then they carried me tenderly to one of their bunks. For hours, I lay in a semi-comatose state. By the afternoon of October 18th, I was able take some food and liquid and I began to try to bridge the cultural and language gaps between myself and the Creole-speaking captain, Eduardo Bailey. Instead of continuing to fish, he decided to change his course to return to his home port of St. Eustatius (Statia). He understood that I needed medical attention. The journey took the rest of that day. In the week since arriving in Statia, I have received emergency medical attention and have been nurtured on the pathway to physical health thanks to Eduardo Bailey’s family, especially his wife Anna-Elisabet and their four children. My mental and emotional health will take longer to recover — if ever. I have begged Eduardo and others who know about me to refrain from notifying authorities. So far, they have agreed. Though this places them at risk, at all costs, I want Jasper Morse to believe I am dead.
Conclusions
1. With each day, I gain strength and mobility. With each day, I am more determined to settle accounts with the man who almost killed me. I believe I shall be ready to do so by the time you read this document.
2. Although I harbor murderous fantasies with respect to Jasper Morse and am plagued with nightmares and panic attacks, I believe I understand and perhaps even have compassion for him and his episodes of insanity. I am not clear that I can forgive him. I do know that even as I am the victim in this saga I am partly at fault for continuing to invite risk (and sexual satiation) in what is, face it, a hazardous occupation.
3. I have conceived a plan to bring Morse to account. It would employ soft power rather than brute force and it could conceivably squelch his plans to drill for oil and gas under Blackwood Forest.
Matters of Opinion
1. Although I swear to the truth of each fact I relate above, I realize that in a court of law Morse could assemble a legal team that would run roughshod over my testimony, especially since I was to have been paid for my services. In the eyes of the law I am a prostitute. Apart from Jacinta, there is no eye-witness before my splash into the ocean. Therefore, I am convinced that pursuing retribution through the police and the courts would be futile. Morse is an exceptionally wealthy man, far wealthier than I imagined before this incident. He is capable of bribing his way out of or forestalling anything I could muster.
2. Apparently there were media accounts that Morse was cleared of suspicion in my disappearance, despite what Jacinta (and presumably her mother) knew of my condition before I fell into the sea. Maybe they so feared repercussions and the loss of their jobs, that they remained silent. If I can find them and if they have not been bribed, I believe they can help me achieve closure to this story.
3. Once I have settled matters with Morse, I believe my future will be best served by becoming a legal resident of Statia. My full recovery will take a long time. This island and its giving people, would hasten the process. In return, if all works out with my plan, I believe I could return their kindness many fold.
4. That I was saved by a sentient species from a watery world was a spiritual experience with no equal. Though I have no conviction of a sky god in any shape or form, from here on I shall think of dolphins as spirit guides and I shall swim with them again.
5. My life for 29 years has always teetered on the brink, especially in the past eight when I have been an elite bisexual mistress with a black belt and a penchant for drugs and drama. When I went over the cliff and survived, I knew it was time to put that behind me, to try to build anew, and to turn my life toward better ends.
Action
To achieve these plans, I need help. The call that led you, Lara, to this testimony came from the only neighbor with a landline, a young woman named Camilla Postma. I trust you have understood her message. Camilla h
as been a rock for me.
PLEASE CONFIRM BY EMAIL AND CALL ME AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE AT 519-318-7745.
It is a tourism office. Calls to and from the USA will raise no red flags. Juanita Rivas in that office is a friend of the Baileys. She will arrange a cab for me. I will return your call within the hour. The office is open 8:30 am to 1 pm and 3 pm to 7 pm. Statia is in the Atlantic time zone, one hour ahead of US Eastern Standard Time.
14
Lara sat stunned, rereading paragraphs of the testimony Abruptly, she wiped away tears of relief and shot back a one-line email confirmation. It was 11 am — noon in Saint Eustatius. Her head spinning, she bolted out of her lab and down the stairs to the benches outside McWhorter to call Juanita Rivas. For weeks, she had been convinced that Adrienne had perished; now elation about her ex-lover’s survival had been overtaken by a compulsion to help and maybe also to save Blackwood Forest in the eleventh hour.
Two hours later, her conversation with Adrienne having plumbed her depths, Lara realized she loved the woman after all. What would this portend for her and Jason? That she loved Adrienne — a fondness, an admiration, not romantic love surely, she reasoned — really had nothing to do with her and Jason. Or did it?
Lara found us at The Eclipse plotting our forthcoming showdown with President Redlaw. She burst upon the scene, greeting us and apologizing for the interruption. “I need to speak with Jason, Katherine, Hannah, Astrid, and Nick. Someplace away from here, right now. It will take just a few minutes. When they return, they will share a surprise that could totally upset the apple cart.”
