by K C Norrie
"That was the best tea I have ever drunk in my entire life." Jones picked up his cup and looked about to ask for more, when Paul quieted him. "Let's go somewhere where we can catch up properly."
After a brief tour of the village's main street, they went to a local pub named Aquela Bebida Falante. It was dimly lit and smoky and usually a good place for conversation. Paul ordered beers and found a table, but he was too well known. He shook hands and made introductions to half the village before collecting Jonesy's rucksack from his office and taking him back to his own house.
Linde welcomed Jonesy and made a fuss over him, turning little Phillipe's room into a guest room for "Frederick" to sleep in, and moving Phillipe` into baby Paco's room.
She asked Frederick about his family and listened as he rambled on and on.
When dinner was over, she moved the two men out to the back porch with a tray of beers, where at last they could talk in private.
Jonesy hadn't left the army voluntarily. He'd come out of an ambush, the only survivor. He'd been in a hospital. They gave him a medical discharge and sent him home.
"Did you look up Carter's grave when you got back?" Paul asked him.
"Absolutely I did! He was glad to see me. Said he didn't get too many visitors."
"I should have gone to see him," said Paul. "I should have made it a priority. The truth is I feel I've been running a race ever since I got out. It's just lately that I've felt the pressure ease up."
Jonesy said he went home to his family. He didn't have a girl to go back to. He'd had a tough time fitting back in.
"I'd been training for the family business as long as I can remember. I expected to pick up right where I left off when I got back, but everything changed while I was gone. My younger sister grew up. She married a man who also wanted to work in the business. There was probably enough work, but we didn't get along. We butted heads. My father too. He'd always been a rigid man. He didn't want to change his way of doing things. I came back with some new ideas. They didn't like them. Eventually I left to go my own way. The only one sorry to see me go was my mother. She thought maybe I needed to go back to the hospital… my temper maybe… I don't know… Anyway...
"That's when I decided to look you up. You weren't easy to find. When I started asking around everyone had heard you were the ruler of some country. I remembered you came from Galveston, but when I got there, there were so many Mateos. At least three of them were named Paul. One was at least ninety from the way he sounded over the phone. He couldn't hear me. I had to keep shouting. One was just a little boy. Just listen. It's a funny story.
"I began by calling all the Mateos in the phonebook. I went right down the line. No one knew a Paul. Finally, one guy says he does know a Paul. Invited me to a wedding and gave me the time and place. Says ‘Paul will be there.'
"I cleaned up and showed up with a new toaster. I kept watching for you all through the church ceremony. Didn't see you. Finally, I told a woman I was looking for Paul Mateo. She pointed to the little boy who had been the ring bearer. The joke was on me. I decided to stay on for the party afterward. I introduced myself to little Paul's father. It was he who knew of another Paul Mateo. There was a kid's table set up with crayons. He picked up a few and drew me a picture on a napkin. He drew a picture from where we were to a beach that said, ‘Treasure Chest.'
"He marked a big red X on it. When I looked at him questionably, he told me it was the name of the bar. He said a Paul Mateo owned it. So later that same night, I walked into this little bar on the ocean named The Treasure Chest.
"I was full of hope. I was all worked up thinking I had come to the end of my search; except that when I asked for you, everyone pointed to the man behind the bar, and all I saw was a skinny old bald guy wiping down the counter. I was so disappointed.
"I sat down at the bar to drown my sorrows for a while. I ended up telling this other Paul Mateo my life story. He was sympathetic though and really listened to me. When I told him about looking for another Paul Mateo, he perked right up and told me to wait in my seat. He said he had something for me that he'd been hanging on to. Something a customer had given him long ago, and he'd saved it.
"I sat and waited, sipping on my beer wondering where I should go next, when he came back with a yellowed newspaper article in his hand."
"This may help you," he said. "This may be what you are looking for."
"He handed it to me and watched me as I read it. To my surprise the article was all about you. It had your picture and a story about how you came from Galveston to become Mayor of some place I'd never heard of.
"Jai` Doro, Brazil.
"It went on to list your many accomplishments and named you as a war hero. A very nice article. I was impressed. No one from Hillsdale Kentucky would ever write such a nice article about me.
"Anyway, I guess you could say I found you at that red X after all. From there, I got to here as quickly as I could."
Jonesy paused before continuing. He sipped a little beer and seemed to be working up courage.
"The truth is I could use a little help. I got myself in a little trouble, I guess. The truth is, after leaving my family I didn't look for you right away. I tried looking for work on my own in another town. A regular big city; Atlanta Georgia, where Carter was buried.
"It didn't turn out so well. At least I thought that way at the time. I got a job washing dishes in a diner, and a room to sleep in.
"Looking back, I guess I was doing alright. But I was angry. I had something to prove. I had dreams. I wanted to show my family that I could make something out of myself without them.
"I wanted to start a business of my own, but I hadn't any clear idea of what that even involved. I only knew I needed money and I hadn't anything saved. I tried to borrow from a bank, but they turned me down.
"Then I heard about a nightly poker game. I told myself I wanted to try it out just the one time, but I started right out on a winning streak. Walking away didn't seem to be a smart idea. I could do no wrong, not to mention the great group of guys I met. I was lonely. I missed the camaraderie we'd had in the army. But as soon as I built enough to make a difference, I should have walked away. Greed took over. I wanted more. From then on, I was always one win away from walking away forever.
"I lost it all in one night.
"After that, I was committed to winning it back. I was doing fair at first, breaking even. Then I hit a skid. A losing streak that cost me more than I could pay. They gave me a lot of chances to win it back. Then they wanted their money.
"I was friends with a guy whom I'd confided my dream of becoming a business owner. He offered to loan me money… enough to pay off my debts and start up something. The interest was high, but I thought I could win that money back in a game. I'd done it before. Just one good win was all I needed. He loaned me the money, and I was set to go… I mean I would have been set to go.
"Instead, I lay awake that night wondering who I thought I was. I didn't have any idea how to start a business. The first payment was due in a month. If I didn't have the payment, they would most likely kill me. The guy I borrowed from acted as my friend, but I knew who he was. I knew his reputation. I was seeing clearly for the first time since I'd come back from the army. I thought of giving the money back and going home to face my family, my tail tucked up between my legs. I didn't need to be in the family business. I could pump gas or flip burgers in the diner back home. But it was too late. I already owed interest. I already spent a good amount paying my debt at the table. I bought rounds of drinks in the bar. For a few short hours I was a big shot. I was everybody's friend.
"Suddenly, I was out of bed and moving faster than my mind could follow. I packed a bag taking only what I needed. I stepped out into the night and hopped on a slow-moving train letting it take me to wherever it was going, with five thousand dollars, minus what I'd spent, hidden in the lining of my rucksack. I used it as a pillow and slept. When I woke up, I jumped off the train. I was in some countryside
with not a sign of civilization. I had no idea where I was or how long I'd slept. I walked until I came to a road. The road led me to another city. Wichita, the sign said. I got some coffee at a diner and enough change to begin making long-distance calls. I had a little book of numbers of people I meant to keep in touch with. I began calling the numbers. The first one was yours, but it had been disconnected. The others, the ones I was able to get through to, told me that crazy story about you running a country somewhere. I guess they weren't too far off though. You've done really well here. People seem to like you, but then they always have.
"Anyway, once I read the article about you, I headed out from Galveston, figuring that Jai` Doro was my destiny. I hopped more trains. I walked more roads. I avoided notice. I had no doubt the people I stole the money from would be looking for me; but if they couldn't find me…
"I've changed Paul. I've learned from my mistakes. I am not the same angry man that left my hometown. I just need a chance to prove myself. A fresh start."
Paul listened carefully to Jonesy's story. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say, that Jonesy could visit, but he couldn't stay here. "You bring danger with you," he wanted to tell him.
The other part remembered that this man had saved his life more than once by taking foolish chances. It was Paul's duty to repay the debt by taking a chance himself. Would the person whose money Jonesy had stolen, find him here? Most likely not. They would have no idea that he would come here. Jai` Doro was all but unheard of in the United States.
"Of course, I will help you," Paul heard himself saying. "What do you need?"
When Jonesy explained what he needed and planned, Paul could not help but burst into laughter. Jonesy wanted to open a funeral home.
"But you have come to the wrong place, my friend."
Paul explained about the curse on the village and how they burned the dead lest they arise and attack the living. He explained what happens when death occurs in Jai` Doro and the gruesome ghastliness of it all.
****
"It can happen at any given time. From out of nowhere a bell tolls. You count as it sounds. One toll for every hour until the funeral. You can hear it from everywhere. You can feel it reverberate all the way to your soul because you know what it means. It means death. But who has died? You don't know. It may be one of your own. Maybe not. You drop whatever you are doing and hurry to the town square where they will have posted the name of the newly deceased and the church that will hold the ceremony. But you must wait in line. The entire village has arrived before you, to read the posting and it is considered bad luck to utter the name of the deceased aloud while the netherworld hovers so near.
"The bell tolls again one toll less; one hour less until the body is set to flames. By now you know the name of the deceased. Only relatives and close friends attend the ceremony within the church. There is not enough room to hold everyone. The rest of the village will attend the death feast at the meeting hall; the only place large enough to hold everyone. Anyone who can, will attend.
"All throughout the village preparations are being made.
"The church prepares for the ceremony.
"The meeting hall is decorated for the deceased's family.
"Food is prepared to bring to the meeting hall for the feast.
"The bell tolls again.
"There is yet no need for hurry and the time moves tortuously slow as the hours count down along with the bell, every hour on the hour, until a single toll marks the beginning of the ceremony. Those who are entitled will fill the church. Everyone else will fill the hall. Prayers begin at both places.
"If you attend the church ceremony, you will see the deceased's body lying atop a funeral pyre ready to burn.
"In bygone days, the pyre was built outside in the churchyard. This was dangerous, especially if the day was windy and accounts of fires have been documented in the church records.
"Modern times have placed the pyre inside the churches. Massive stone fireplaces have been erected for this purpose. They are mercifully hidden away behind ornate iron doors during regular church services.
"As I have said, as you enter church you will notice at once the beloved body of the deceased, placed atop the pyre, within a massive stone fireplace. Two watchers will be in place with their torches ready.
"Once the people are seated, they are led in prayer and the body is blessed. There is a ritual is performed for the immediate family, and then the chanting begins.
'Lord, we pray for the eternal light that is yours to give, that (deceased's name) may rest in peace.'
"The chant is repeated over and over again, and you will feel the power of something turning into the chant.
"The body is engulfed in flames, and the church bell is set to tolling again. This cacophony of noise is supposed confuse malevolent spirits and ensure the deceased's soul a safe passage into heaven.
"Once there is nothing left but ashes, the chanting and the bell both stop. There is merciful silence. It is over."
Paul paused, looking Jonesy. He looked him square in the eyes.
"But what do I mean by watchers, you may ask. Who are those two men who watch the body on the pyre and set the fire?
"They watch the deceased's eyes, I would answer. If the deceased eyes should open, they are to start the fire at once, before the body can rise up from the pyre."
Paul laughed at the serious expression of fear that crossed Jonesy's face.
"So, you see?" explained Paul. "We have no need for a funeral home. Anyone who dies here is dressed quickly and rushed to the pyre."
Paul laughed again, this time to lighten the mood. The story sounded ludicrous when told to someone who had not yet witnessed the event. But Jonesy did not join into the laughter. Instead he grew pensive and silent.
"And has it ever happened?" he asked Paul quietly. "Have the eyes ever opened?"
Paul thought about the young wife screaming at that funeral a few months past. He had only attended a funeral ceremony a handful of times since he'd been here. All but that last one had been eventless. The truth was, for its size of village, there were not that many deaths. But there were plenty of stories. People who swear they saw, or they attended one in which…
"I have never witnessed such," he answered carefully. "But there are stories." Perhaps Jonesy would be frightened. Perhaps he would leave on his own accord and take the danger he carried away with him.
It was late into the night. The snacks were gone, the beer drunk up, and Paul began to be aware again of the breeze in the air and the sounds of nature that never entirely quieted. Jonesy broke the silence.
"I thought I was dead. I was lying on the ground. You hurt too much to be dead, I thought to myself. My head hurt. My back hurt. My arms and legs hurt. We had been marching along with the French army, when we were ambushed. We fought alongside them against an enemy attack. There was a burst of gunfire and then an explosion. That's all I remember.
"Once I convinced myself I wasn't dead, I opened my eyes. It was daytime. I moved my head just a little to see where I was. I was surrounded by the bodies of dead men. It was eerily silent. I felt for a weapon and found nothing. The enemy must have confiscated everything. I looked around with my eyes. The soldier beside me had been shot in the chest. The wound was nearly dried with congealed blood. I must have been out for quite a while. I must have been blown backwards from the explosion and hit my head. I could see no blood on myself. I hadn't been shot and I could feel my fingers and toes. Sitting up was painful. I still had my water bottle, and I drank from it as I looked around.
"Dead bodies didn't scare me. I grew up in a mortuary. I wondered if anyone was still alive like me. I began searching the bodies for weapons and food. As I came to each one, I said a little prayer. I took the tags to bring back to camp with me. If any eyes were still opened, I closed them. So far, I had come across one good dagger and a few more water bottles. One pack held a a candy bar. I ate it greedily and kept the dagger in my hand.
"
I was staring at a soldier in a French uniform. I noticed him because I remembered talking to him as we marched down that long dusty road before the battle. He wore a tattered red ribbon tied around his right wrist, a gift from his wife, to remind him of her. That's how I recognized him. I noticed the ribbon. He was from a place in France named Saint Angel or something like that. I was staring because I thought his face looked oddly aged. I thought maybe it was just the sunlight and the way it was hitting him. I stepped closer to get a better look. Suddenly his eyes opened. I stepped back. They weren't normal eyes. The irises had faded to nearly white. As I was puzzling this out, he sat up and opened his mouth revealing fangs. Then he began to stand. I was frozen. I was screaming. I couldn't stop. He stepped toward me. He reached out, grabbed my arm, and tried to sink his fangs into it. I reacted and pushed him back. I slashed him across his throat with my dagger. There was no blood, and he didn't die. He kept coming toward me. I realized what I was fighting was no longer human. It was some new weapon that the enemy had loosed on us. I stabbed my dagger through one of his eyes and he went down.
"I was distraught. I should have just run away. That's what I wanted to do. I should have just run away. But I stayed instead. I had to take responsibility, didn't I? It was what my father always told me. So, I made up my mind and stayed.
"One by one I stabbed each dead soldier in the head so they could not rise up against us. There was only me left to do this. No one else knew about it. I alone, was killing the secret weapons. That was how they found me Paul. I know how it must have looked. I tried to explain, but no one believed me. They put me in the hospital and said I needed rest. The chaplain came. He said it was time to go home. He told me I had a service record to be proud of, but I could not be a soldier anymore. "God has made other plans for you," he told me.
"When I returned home, the bodies in the mortuary and the funeral home made me nervous. I kept imagining their eyes opening. The enemy had a secret weapon now. Had they only used it on soldiers? When Johnny Martin's body came home from fighting overseas, it was me who suggested we remove the brain. My father was appalled as was my brother-in-law. I tried to explain to them about the weapon the enemy used on soldiers, but they wouldn't believe me. When I sneaked into the funeral parlor and stabbed Johnny in the back of the head, my father told me I could no longer work in the family business. I would need to find something else. There was a fight. I packed my bags and left the same night giving my mother one last hug, as she begged me to go back to the hospital for a little while."
