She took a year off and traveled to Central and South America, dabbling in revolutionary politics and drug dealing. Her parents never knew how close she came to being jailed in Peru and Colombia. She was clever enough to figure out when it was time to move on, and she had friends to help her. She became ever more fluent in Spanish. Languages were easy for her. Reluctantly, she came back for her senior year, graduated, then took her own poor girl's version of the Grand Tour of Europe: including some of the old Eastern bloc countries like Bulgaria and Romania, pushing on to Turkey and Lebanon. In those years she flirted with neo-Marxist affiliations, fell in briefly with Islamic terrorists, and learned about guns and bombs. She had willing teachers, some of them lovers. But she never officially joined any of the radical organizations that sought to recruit her. Nor did she reveal any of this to her parents in New Jersey.
Next stop: Africa. Starting in Morocco, then moving across the northern tier of the continent, she eventually worked her way south through the sub-Saharan regions that were plagued with revolution and diseases. Lucky? She looked back and wondered how in hell she had never been struck with either a bullet or malaria. She came to love and respect the people she met, the undernourished and downtrodden masses with black skin and blacker futures. She witnessed tribal massacres and military coups. She learned several languages, and improved her skills with firearms. She became adept at target shooting, but never had to fire at another person until one dark and dangerous day—a day that changed her life forever.
The city of Durban in post-apartheid South Africa was a teeming seaport that, like any port, attracted "all kinds." Anne Marie Appleton certainly fit that category: a bedraggled, world-weary traveler who owned no more than the clothes on her back, a few bits of costume jewelry, some paperback books (including worn copies of revolutionary tracts), and the odd penny-equivalent coin as souvenir of the many countries in which she had lived. Her clothes were a man's much-patched flannel shirt a few sizes too big, a pair of denim jeans that were much too tight, rope-soled sandals that barely clung to her feet, and a floppy hat that sometimes kept the rain or sun from her matted hair. It was rare that she ever saw or touched any local paper currency. When she did, it was in payment for a sexual favor for some stranger—or a friend. She often begged for food, or a few coins to pay for it.
She had started to drink around the clock, or at least during the time she was not unconscious on her bedroll in a city mission. She stole booze and drugs when she could, bummed tobacco at waterfront taverns. After several months she had blended into the scene, and it was as if she had been there all her life. Anne Marie Appleton of Cherry Hill was thirty years old and going downhill fast.
"I am the anti-Peace Corps," she joked to her black stevedore friends in the bars. They laughed, but kept a safe distance from her. There was something in her devil-may-care attitude that made her seem dangerous.
One night, she showed up in her favorite tavern with a large quantity of cash. She did not tell her comrades where or how she had come by her treasure, but she bought several rounds for anyone who would drink with her. When the police came, looking for a woman who had robbed and murdered an English businessman, she slipped out a back door.
She ran. It was raining and the slick streets were her enemy. Her sandals betrayed her at every turn, so she shed them and ran barefoot. The police, alerted, came in pursuit, guns drawn. Her mind was a blank; all she knew was that she had to escape. If apprehended and thrown into jail, that would be the end for her.
Drunk and nearly blinded by driving rain and tears, Anne Marie ran to the waterfront, onto the dimly lit and dangerous docks. Her pursuers sent a few warning shots into the air, but then lost sight of her in the maze of shacks and gangplanks, crates and barrels. She did not know where she was running, but she ran and ran and ran. Ahead, she saw a dilapidated tugboat hugging a dark pier. Without thinking, she leaped over a pile of ropes and aboard the craft. She buried herself beneath a tarpaulin that smelled of fuel oil and rotten fish. There she passed out, oblivious to the shouts and footsteps that echoed through the night. The police did not find her.
The young woman awoke—came to—as the boat churned to life the next morning. Luckily, she still had some money in her pocket from her previous night's adventure. She paid the tug captain to take her alongside a cargo ship scheduled to leave the harbor that day. He did, and she talked her way aboard with a story about running away from a rapist in Durban. Two days later, she disembarked in Madagascar, a mysterious, even mythical place that she had never planned to visit—let alone to live in as a fugitive from the law in South Africa.
Anne Marie sought out the neo-hippie community on the southwestern beaches of Madagascar; there, within several months, she learned Malagasy and, again, blended into the scenery. She was spent, exhausted physically and mentally, tired of running, and for the first time in years she felt homesick for New Jersey and her family. She contemplated writing a letter to her parents, asking for their help. She thought about this for days, for weeks on end. Several times she started the letter, then tore it up. As time passed, she began to feel that, without help from her family or anyone else, she was "coming back," climbing out of the dark pit into which she had descended. She cut down on her drug usage, remaining dependent but feeling "under control." She congratulated herself for getting "mellow" at last.
She started living with a Malagasy sailor—a fisherman really, who rarely worked but had lived on the beaches all his adult life. He was a native, and he taught her the culture and religion of his people, and helped her hone her language skills. A year passed, then two. Whether she had regained her mental stability or slipped into a new state of derangement, quiet and aloof, it would take a host of specialists to divine. In any case, the Event changed everything...
It is our destiny now, she thought, to explore the seas and seek out others who may have survived the fire and flood. If most of the island nation of Madagascar has been destroyed, and the world beyond as well, then what a magnificent opportunity for these people to become a mighty power in a world remade, and for her to be their leader. How to convey such a lofty ambition to these rough and ready pirates and petty criminals whom she now commanded?
"You men," she said aloud, "have been chosen by the Creator of the universe, Zanahary. The ancestors, the Razana, are calling us to do His will and bring others into his dominion. For too long, the evil Christians and Muslims have tried to destroy our gods and our ancestors. Ever since the Portuguese first landed here five hundred years ago, our people have been oppressed by European influences. Only under the Merina dynasty and our greatest sovereigns, King Andrianamapoinimerina and Queen Ranavolana, did the Malagasy people rise to greatness. That was a long time ago. Since then, mostly it has been a struggle against the foreigners and the oligarchs for control of the means of production..." Anne Marie Appleton paused, having forgotten that she was no longer Anne Marie Appleton, and having forgotten for a moment who her audience was.
"We know that our traditional capital, Antananarivo, has been destroyed, as have the wealthy landowners and politicians who kept our people poor and oppressed. Many of you were fortunate to dwell far from the evil influences of the capital city, living on the sea as our ancestors once did. Now the world is reborn, and we are remade. We have created a new clan and a new nation."
Upon assuming the role of queen and commander in chief, she had renounced all sexual relations and declared herself celibate. There was no looking back, from this point, no time for regret or second thoughts.
"The world has trembled at the hand of the Almighty Zanahary, the God of our sacred ancestors. We are a people of many races who have come from far places all over the world. Just as I have come from a distant place to be here with you—and I believe it is no accident that this is the case. I was destined from the beginning of time to be here as your leader."
Her body had nearly betrayed her when she had gone through a withdrawal and detoxification process in the days immediately f
ollowing the Event. But she felt reborn now, empowered, capable of great deeds—godlike. These men did not need to know anything about her other than that she was their queen, their general, and she would lead them to glory.
"Tomorrow, we will sail in search of others who have survived the catastrophe. Some will gladly look to us for leadership. Others we will destroy or force to accept our rule. We will search for food, for guns and other weapons, and for treasure. And what we seek, we shall find! We will take what is rightfully ours by virtue of our strength. We will conquer or eliminate the weak, who do not deserve to stand in our way or to consume resources that we need."
Her former common-law husband, a sun-darkened fisherman with hazel eyes, nut brown hair, and a several-days beard spoke up. "You should stay here to keep order among the people and let us do this dangerous work. If you get hurt or killed, we will be lost." He wiped his cracked lips with a callused brown hand. "You are our queen and our leader, so you cannot risk this. Think of your people."
Grunts and murmurs greeted his words. The men of her council agreed: it was just too dangerous a mission for a woman—and especially for their supreme leader.
She raised her hand. She was no longer Anne Marie Appleton. Cherry Hill was ancient history, and her family... gone. Everything she had known in her previous life was gone. She had nothing to lose. "I understand your concern," she said mildly. "I am thankful that you think of me in this way. But you must stop thinking of me as a woman."
Her eyes blazed now, and her tone changed dramatically. "I am the messenger of Zanahary! He and the sacred ancestors speak through me. You will listen and obey, and after this day you shall not question a single order or any statement that comes from my mouth. I speak the words of our Creator, who made heaven and earth and everything in it. It was he who destroyed the earth but left us here to inherit what is left. We are the chosen ones, and I am the undisputed leader of the people." Her hand grazed the pistol in her belt. A bolt-action rifle stood within easy reach.
"I have put aside womanly thoughts and feelings for now. Perhaps I will never take them up again. I have no fears, nothing that holds me back from doing the will of our God. I expect you to do the same, to have no reservations or doubts of any kind. Do you understand me?" The assembly nodded and muttered their assent. She looked directly at her former lover. "You have been my partner and friend. Now you are my comrade and soldier. I love you as I do these others under my command. And I expect complete obedience. My life is protected by Zanahary and the Razana, the ancestors. Your life and all of theirs," she declaimed, her hand sweeping through the air to indicate the other men present and those who waited outside the council, everyone within her sway, "are worth less than nothing except that you serve the Queen and her people in the quest to build a new empire, the greatest in the new world. I have been spared to rule. You will lay down your life for the same purpose.
"You will know me as Queen Ranavolana, the greatest ruler of the Malagasy nation. I have come back to my people. They will rejoice when they hear of this. For theirs is a special destiny. Because of me, they will have an honored place in history."
By the time the Joint Planning Subcommittee held its first meeting in Engineering Village, the queen, with a band of her pirates, was already sailing the seas in search of conquest.
7
Wil Hardy and his girlfriend, Sarah, sat apart from everyone else on the beach looking at the still unfamiliar constellations of the Southern sky. He reviewed with her the day's proceedings of the Joint Planning Subcommittee—and she listened, as attentively as she could, considering the late hour and the brilliance of the stars.
"Are you sure you're not being too ambitious?" she asked tentatively.
"Well, there are problems, plenty of them. But they seem like nothing compared to the determination of these people to overcome them. We may be biting off more than we can chew, but that's what the human spirit is all about, isn't it? We've survived the worst—the very worst that anyone could imagine—and we're pulling ourselves together. We're on our way!"
"So much optimism, so much self-confidence. It's amazing." She rested her head on his shoulder.
There was no wind. The night was totally still, eerily calm. Suddenly, Hardy heard his name. Someone was calling for him. It was Herb, breathless as he approached the isolated couple:
"Wil! Wil, where the hell are you?"
"Over here," Hardy shouted. "What's up?"
"Captain Nordstrom and your father want to see you—right away. There's been a problem with one of the fishing boats. The fishermen are in the captain's headquarters giving some kind of report. It's all hush-hush, but they want you there right away to take notes."
"We were feeling too comfortable," Wilson said to Sarah.
"The gods are displeased," she replied with a smile and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.
Wil dashed back to their hut, picked up his pencil and notebook, and hurried to see what was happening.
The survivors' fishing fleet, which had been established just a week earlier, and endorsed that very day by the Joint Planning Subcommittee, consisted of several of the Queen of Africa's lifeboats, each one with a crew of seven, six at the oars. The boats also sported such jerry-built sails as the bosun and his men could improvise. The crews were comprised of seamen from the cruise ship, along with Inlanders who had knowledge of the local waters. After sailing a short distance off shore—never more than an ordained ten miles—the crews dropped nets for trawling, along with lines and hooks. They had been having moderate luck, which is much better luck than anyone had at first expected. It was such a crew of seven that was meeting with Dr. Wilson Hardy, Sr., and Captain Johan Nordstrom.
Moments after the younger Hardy arrived, Richard and Deborah Frost entered the meeting area, somewhat disheveled and winded, as if they also had been summoned hurriedly.
"Thank you, all three of you, for coming right over," the elder Hardy said. Without further introduction he addressed a question to the Frosts: "Deborah and Richard, do you know anything about Madagascar?"
"Why, yes, we've studied the island, visited it, know a fair bit about it. A forbidding and beautiful place, I can tell you that much right off the bat," Frost said.
"Good." Dr. Hardy glanced at Nordstrom, who called in the crew of the fishing boat.
The mate in charge was Harry McIntosh, a Scot who later confessed to Wil Hardy that he had been a lot happier angling for salmon in the streams of his home country than he was bobbing about in these strange waters, wrestling with nets. But at this moment he was not talking about the salmon streams of Scotland, which probably did not exist any more. He had been telling a tale that Hardy and Nordstrom obviously found unsettling—and which he was asked to repeat for the newcomers, starting from the beginning.
McIntosh was about five five and built like a barrel, with huge forearms and a brown, sea-weathered face, with a shock of white-gray hair that stood stiffly at attention.
Just a few hours earlier, in midafternoon, the fishing boat had been drifting slowly before the wind about five miles offshore. Having made a satisfactory catch, McIntosh decided it was time to head back. Just then, one of his men tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward the east. There, clearly limned against the horizon, brilliantly illuminated by the sun now setting in the west, was a sloop, perhaps fifty feet long, speeding through the waves.
"Her sails were bright red, seemed to be on fire, if you want my view. Anyhow, we were paralyzed, at least for a moment. Up to then we had assumed there were no other survivors on the face of the earth, and surely no other ship on the surface of the sea."
McIntosh went on, "I couldn't believe my eyes. We were all convinced at first that this must be some sort of mirage." The mate stopped and shook his head as if still in a state of disbelief. "But the sloop was real enough," he continued. "Suddenly, she tacked and started flying straight toward us. There was no way to avoid her even if we had wanted to. She could literally sail rings around us."
"Excuse me, Harry," Dr. Hardy interjected. "Just what is a sloop?"
Captain Nordstrom, impatient, gave the answer. "A single-masted vessel, Wilson, with two sails, a mainsail plus a jib. The jib is the small one in front. This could have been your typical pleasure yacht. There used to be plenty of them sailing between Durban and Madagascar—it's only about two hundred fifty miles across. The waters are called the Mozambique Channel. Of course, yachts are one thing. Red sails are another. That's something I've never come across."
"I thought it was an optical illusion," McIntosh said. "You know, red sails in the sunset, that sort of thing. But they were red, all right—painted, I guess, by that crazy bitch."
"What?" Wil Hardy blurted. "Who?"
"I'll tell you, I'll tell you," the mate continued. "Within minutes, it seemed, the sloop was upon us, and without a hail or a hello, came right up alongside and grappled fast. And that's when the crazy bitch appeared. She's a youngish woman, not bad-looking, not bad-looking at all. She was wearing a red shirt and some kind of a wild bandanna around her head. At first I thought, 'Well, that's nice, here's a bit of company.' But when I noticed she was holding a gun, my mood changed mighty quick. Then I started to look at the crew. I don't think I scare easily, but I have to tell you that those nasties fairly spooked me out of my shoes. They were Malays. Malay pirates, all loaded down with knives and guns."
"How do you know they were Malays?" Captain Nordstrom asked.
The Aftermath Page 14
