Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  And how much better will I be at fulfilling his plan for me? How many more people will I draw to Gaudí's side? How much less lonely will that make him?

  I already know the answer. Looking back, I think I have always known.

  I will not fail him. I will succeed beyond the expectations of us both.

  "Easy!" Gaudí cups his hands around his mouth as he shouts up at the crew. "Don't be in such a hurry!"

  The statue's progress slows. It rises deliberately, like a real angel turning as it gains the sky.

  Clusters of men stand and watch, hands a-pockets, hats tipped back on their heads. Clusters of women, too, with aprons and baskets and shawls. All of them gone out of their way to see me, to see us—to see what we become.

  So I have already begun to do my good work, haven't I? I have already started to capture their imaginations.

  I mean "we." We have already started.

  "Left!" says Gaudí. "Further to the left!"

  Atop the scaffolding, the workmen haul the angel its last few feet and guide it toward its niche. Three more statues on the ground await ascension alongside it. Someday, there will be many more—figures of saints and angels and sinners and devils, studding my walls like fruit on a vine, life-size and lifelike as if they were men and women dipped in cement.

  I will be like a museum turned inside-out, masterpieces laid bare for all to see.

  "Back to the right!" says Gaudí. "That's good!"

  I feel the angel settle into its niche, an expected and welcome weight. As the men work to secure it, their heat darts over me like fleeting sparks. Roving spots of warmth, each one indistinguishable from the rest.

  As I think of them, I wonder. As fleeting and unremarkable as they are, they are capable of great accomplishments. They are able to build something massive and matchless and bold.

  Does it make sense, then, for me to think that my only purpose is to bring them together? To draw these roving sparks to relieve Gaudí's loneliness?

  "No!" Down on the ground, Gaudí swats a worker's hands from a statue. "That's not right!" He jabs a finger at another statue nearby. "That one's next!"

  I wish I could ask him. I wish he would tell me.

  He doesn't talk to me much anymore, though. Most of the time, his workers are the ones I see. His subordinates. Gaudí himself is too busy to confide, running between other jobs that are only names to me: Casa Calvet, Bellesguard Tower, Park Güell.

  And so, I am left to think it over on my own. To decide for myself.

  Is my purpose limited to relieving my creator's loneliness? Is he building something so grand, so expansive, so alive, with only that limited mission in mind?

  Or does he have greater plans for me? And if so, what are they?

  Or should I be asking a different question all together?

  As I continue to grow and evolve, can anyone—even my creator—provide all the answers I seek? Does my destiny even exist as a fixed, predictable thing?

  Or is it up to me to take a hand in it myself?

  "Excellent!" Gaudí looks up from down below, giving a thumbs-up to the men on the scaffold working with the angel. "Perfect!"

  As he smiles up at me, I feel a surge of love for him. He has been with me almost from the beginning. He has made me what I am.

  I respect and admire him. I have no doubt of his visionary genius and tenacity. He is truly a great man, worthy of the great love I feel for him.

  Yet I feel something else as well. For the first time, as he storms about the worksite, snapping out orders and slapping backs, I am jealous. Jealous of his greatness, which flares so brightly even in the face of a rising, thriving masterpiece. Jealous of the simple gifts of his speech and mobility, which I am denied.

  Jealous of the answers that fill his head. The answers I crave.

  CHAPTER 21

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: Spanish Fort, Alabama

  My favorite food is my sister Kenya Willow's lamb couscous. Still, the fried chicken, biscuits, and pie in the truck stop go down just fine.

  I feel like I'm back in the game. My moment of near-disastrous self-doubt at the Hiss-imposter's lair in Pensacola, Florida did not slow me down by more than a few minutes. Poison Oak Kitty and her cronies are on the move, and so am I.

  Thankfully, the traitor among them enables me to follow, posting news of their travels in an Internet blog. I don't know all the details, but I do know where they'll be and when. I know I'm on the right track, and I know I have plenty of time to catch up to them.

  When I do, I'll put my doubts to rest forever. I'll sort out who's who and what's what, whatever it takes. The Ninjas and Apaches taught me a hundred ways apiece to do that.

  I pay for my food and get back on Interstate 10, headed west. I'll be riding state route 45 all the way from Mobile, Alabama to Tupelo, Mississippi. Along the way, I'll say my prayers and make my plans. Think of what I'll do if I expose the imposters; think of what I'll do if I prove they're not imposters at all.

  And I pray an extra thanks for the traitor among them, who throws down the trail of bread crumbs. The traitor without whom my warpath would be lost.

  God bless Knox Pittenger.

  CHAPTER 22

  The twenty-foot-tall Martian stared down at Dunne as he pried himself out of the rent-a-car. As Dunne gazed up at the statue, he scratched his face, on which the word "Martian" was still visible; he'd scrubbed it raw, but Quincy's magic marker handiwork had barely faded to half-strength.

  Dunne was still pissed about the incident, though he had to admit it had led to this lead. An Internet search combining "Martian" and "Gowdy" had turned up this place, which he was sure they never would have found otherwise.

  It was called Martianland. The name was in huge green letters on a neon sign arching over the Martian's head.

  As Dunne continued to stare at the statue, Quincy joined him. "I always figured Santy Claus was a Martian."

  As soon as Quincy said it, Dunne saw what he meant. The plaster statue looked like it had started out as something other than a Martian. Someone had lopped off the arms, added tentacles and ray guns, built up the head to a huge, bald dome, and painted the whole thing pea green...but they hadn't done away with the apple cheeks and bushy beard. In a past life, the statue had been someone other than a Martian, though Dunne thought Santa Claus was kind of a stretch.

  Just then, Hannahlee walked over and looked up at the Martian, shading her eyes against the Deep Southern sun. She stood there for a moment without a word, then lowered her gaze and continued across the dusty parking area.

  Dunne and Quincy followed. They headed for the office/gift shop/snack bar—a building that vaguely resembled a half-assed flying saucer. Someone had mounted gray sheets of metal all around the building in the shape of a rough dome, with octagonal cutouts for windows. A ring of blinking Christmas lights around the middle of the dome flashed red-green, red-green, red-green.

  It wasn't exactly the Magic Kingdom. The only thing that held Dunne's attention in a good way was the wall, which stretched out from the central saucer in either direction, enclosing Martianland. Though the eight-foot-high wall had been painted pea green like the statue, it had an interesting texture—as if thousands of broken bits of smooth tile had been stuck in plaster. The top edge of the wall was cut in a rippling wave; the wave was capped with a jumbled rail of wrought iron forms that looked like a cross between wild vines and abstract junk.

  Once again, Dunne had the feeling he was looking at something that hadn't started out as part of Martianland.

  As Hannahlee opened the round, silver door of the saucer, Quincy crowded the doorway behind her. "I just hope Martian air conditioning's out of this world. I've got a killer case of heat stroke, and I don't mean the good kind."

  Dunne wiped the sweat from his forehead. The heat and humidity were oppressive—not a surprise that far south in Barcelona, Mississippi, but still hard to take.

  Unfortunately, there was no air conditioning at
all inside the half-assed flying saucer. The breeze from the big pedestal fan that hit Dunne when he walked through the door felt more like the hot breath of an oven than anything remotely cool.

  "Oh no! It's fotter in here." Quincy stumbled, almost knocking over a spinner rack of postcards. "This is ferrible."

  Dunne moved away from him, drifting between the racks of souvenirs. He walked past Martianland t-shirts and shot glasses and coffee mugs, all of them caked with dust. Everything looked old and faded, as if it the management had not restocked in twenty years.

  Dunne guessed that the food in the snack bar had been around as long as the souvenirs. The snack-sized bags of chips on the wall looked dusty and faded, and Dunne didn't recognize any of the brands. The photos of hot dogs and sodas on the menu above the counter were ancient. As Dunne watched, a head darted around the corner of the service window, then back; he got an impression of a dark-haired young man with a hairnet and sneer.

  Dunne turned when he heard the ding of a bell. He saw Hannahlee hit it again—a little bell beside the cash register on the glass display case up front.

  "Hello?" Hannahlee was staring at an open doorway behind the register. "I'd like to be waited on, please."

  Dunne glanced back at the snack bar, but the sneering man was nowhere to be seen.

  "Hello?" said Hannahlee. "Is anyone here?"

  Quincy picked up a toy ukulele and strummed the strings. "Like the Pied Piper, I shall draw them to us with a song."

  Just then, a short, round woman with long, gray hair strolled in from the parking lot entrance. In spite of the heat, she wore a gray-and-blue zipper sweater and long pants—navy blue corduroys. "Welcome, Earthlings!" Her accent sounded faintly Australian.

  "Take us to your leader." Quincy said it in a high-pitched voice with a space alien accent straight out of a kids' cartoon. "We seek an audience with Gowdy the Great!"

  "No one here by that name." The woman raised both hands in identical gestures—two middle fingers together, thumb, index, and little finger spread apart. "Perhaps I, Starla the Magnificent, may serve you instead."

  Quincy gasped and recoiled. "Starla, the Devourer of Worlds and Defenestrator of Spacefaring Filk-Dragons, Starla?"

  "The one and only." Starla leaned toward him and cackled. "Care for a demonstration of my cosmic massacre-craft?"

  Quincy leered and rubbed his hands together. "You'll never know how long I've waited for someone to ask me that question. Will you marry me?"

  Hannahlee interrupted, stepping in between Quincy and Starla. "I hope you can help us. We're interested in Cyrus Gowdy's connection to this park."

  "I'm the wrong Martian to ask." Starla giggled and leaned back against the display case. "I only took over two weeks ago."

  "Could he have been a previous owner?" Dunne wished the Internet research had given them more to work with...but no such luck. All they'd found was a brief mention in a dead link listed on a Google search page: "Cyrus Gowdy's dream...Martianland, Mississippi."

  Starla shrugged. "The only previous owner I personally know is the late Mr. Sidney Sheaf, my uncle, from whose estate I received this attraction."

  "How long did your uncle own this place?" said Dunne.

  "Five years." Starla pulled long strands of gray hair over her left shoulder and started to braid them. "As you can see, he never quite got around to the renovations."

  "Was he under a spell when he bought it?" said Quincy. "Possessed by a demon, maybe? You're kind of in the middle of nowhere, here."

  "So was Disneyworld, right?" Starla winked. "If you build it, they will come." She shrugged. "Not sure it's the same if you have a shitty theme in the first place and let it run down from there, though."

  "And you don't know who owned it before your uncle?" said Dunne.

  "Someone with about the same commitment to upkeep," said Starla. "More than that, I don't know. Remember, I've only been here two weeks."

  Hannahlee smiled. "Do you have any records we could look at?"

  "If you're talking about stacks of old porno magazines, then yes." Hannahlee crossed her eyes, then uncrossed them. "Otherwise, I have yet to find the legendary 'books.' Honestly, this place is about as organized as a city dump."

  "It's been said that Martians have different standards of neatness." Quincy's voice turned scholarly, with overly-emphatic diction. "Martian toilets, for instance, flush outward. Vacuum cleaners on Mars spew filth instead of sucking it up."

  Starla cocked her head and grinned at him. "You've been to Mars, I see."

  "I may have been around a bit," said Quincy. "Let's just say my tastes are not parochial in nature."

  "Say." Starla nodded and pointed the tip of her braid at him. "You wouldn't happen to be a little green under the surface, would you?"

  "Why, Madame," said Quincy. "You're not accusing me of being a Martian, are you?"

  "That's exactly what he is." Dunne hiked a thumb at Quincy.

  "Then that makes two of you," said Starla. "You've got 'Martian' written all over your face, sir!" She drew a finger across her own face from cheek to cheek.

  Dunne hadn't looked in a mirror for a while. He'd temporarily forgotten about the word on his face. "Hey, that's right. Does this mean we both get a discount on admission?"

  Starla laughed and brushed a hand through the air. "Oh, just go in and look around. Your company has been payment enough."

  Hannahlee shook her head and whipped a wad of cash from her purse. "Thank you, but no." She peeled off five twenty-dollar bills and pushed them toward Starla. "We insist on paying for a guided tour."

  "Really," said Starla. "I can't."

  "It's tax deductible," said Hannahlee. "You'll be doing us a favor."

  Starla sighed and took the money. "In that case, Earthling and Martians, let the tour begin."

  "Here we have a replica of the Great Wall of Mars," said Starla. "One of the Twelve Wonders of the Red Planet."

  It was the first thing Dunne saw after walking through the doorway out of the half-assed flying saucer: a low wall winding through the overgrown vegetation of the park. The wall was waist-high, with a rounded, rippling lip. It was painted bright red over a surface of jumbled shapes—similar to the broken-tile texture of the park's boundary wall. Midway down, a green ledge, like a bench, projected from the "Great Wall," curving to follow the wall's rolling flow.

  "What an amazing recreation of the Great Wall." Quincy ran his hand along the lip. "It makes me feel homesick."

  Dunne touched the wall, too, brushing his fingertips over the jumbled shapes. As he felt the smooth surface and eyed the winding structure in the blazing Mississippi sunshine, he was certain of one thing.

  This had not started out as the Great Wall of Mars. Like the pea green boundary wall, it had been built for another purpose.

  Starla continued along the red dirt walkway, glancing at a ragged map in her hand. "Up ahead, we see a bestiary of the deadliest monsters on Mars." Following a sharp bend in the Great Wall, she spread her arms wide before a pair of statues. "The Sphere-Beast and Dragon-Lion!"

  "My old pets!" Quincy scooted forward and patted the heads of both statues. "The spitting image of Fluffy and Cuddles!"

  As Dunne stared, he again had the feeling that what he saw wasn't meant to be Martian. The "Sphere-Beast" looked like the head and neck of a dragon protruding from an upright, five-foot-high disk. The "Dragon-Lion" was a six-foot-long lizard with open mouth and jagged spinal ridges, sprawled over a tub of flowers.

  Thought the Sphere-Beast was painted green with red stripes, and the Dragon-Lion was painted red with green spots, Dunne could see other patterns in their skins. Each one was covered in the same jigsaw puzzles of broken shapes that encased the Great Wall and the boundary wall.

  "This brings us to Castle Mars." Starla walked under a trellis archway tangled with vines. "Home of the Red Queen of Mars and heart of all Martian power."

  Dunne was surprised when he emerged from the archway. Finally, he saw something that di
dn't look as if it had been carelessly altered to fit the park's theme.

  The building before him was the size of a small house. It really did look like a castle, rimmed with turrets and ramparts. A tall tower rose at one front corner, its cylindrical shaft bulging near the top, sprouting a cluster of colorful abstract shapes from the bulge like a bouquet of flowers from a pot.

  The whole building was painted in shades of red and green—but for once, Dunne didn't think it looked like it had been repainted. There was too much fine detail in the thin bands circling the walls...the cross-hatching of the tower...the green piping along the seams of the terra cotta roof. The other attractions looked as if someone had dumped paint on them, then touched up the job with a push broom. This one looked as if had taken much more time and care.

  "Well?" said Starla. "What do you think so far?"

  Hannahlee wandered around the base of the tower, staring upward. "I haven't seen anything that suggests a connection to Cyrus Gowdy."

  "But my spirits are never wrong," said Quincy.

  Dunne shaded his eyes from the sun as he gazed at the building's rooftop. "What I'd like to know is, what did this place use to be?"

  "Before Martianland?" said Starla.

  "Yeah." Dunne nodded. "It used to be something else. I can't tell what."

  Starla sighed. "I have no idea whatsoever. Could've been a Satanic Six Flags for all I know."

  "You think so?" Quincy leered and rubbed his hands together. His voice changed to a Peter Lorre-as-Igor whine. "With a Roller Coaster from Hell and a Black Mass Ferris Wheel? Mickey the Maggot and Donald Demon? My dark master will be most pleased!"

  "Get thee behind me, Satan!" Starla held up two index fingers in the shape of a cross. "It's hot enough here as it is!"

  As Quincy and Starla clowned around, Dunne started toward a group of objects he glimpsed through the brush. "What's next on the tour? What's that over there?"