Solomon's Keepers

by J. H. Kavanagh

  You look at your brand new Sharman watch. Hold your wrist high and press the light. The snake symbol stands out in a flower of blue light. You turn the slim housing into silhouette against the sky. God it feels good! You love that Sharman!

  You want to get away and you scramble through coarse plants, feet sinking and snagging in loose leaves. The plane is a broken dragonfly, a fuselage with torn stubs for wings. A trail of body panels and wounds of black earth amongst ransacked foliage define its final chaotic moment of life. The forest presses so close you can no longer understand what opening you ever saw. It is as though the canopy overhead has closed again.

  You force a pathway into the jungle. The plants pull damp fronds over you as you move but the ground feels dry and firm. You can only see for a few feet but the vastness of the jungle is sculpted in sound. A thousand birds are singing the distance; troupes of monkeys howling terraces of invisible trees; innumerable insects humming and whistling the profusion of leaves and vines. A croaking frog opens a pocket in the night ahead. You walk for several minutes, pushing on slowly, planting your feet gently and with elaborate caution to avoid making any sounds beyond the soft slide of leaves as you move. Your caution is justified. There is a new set of sounds ahead, movement and an opening in the forest canopy. You catch a whiff of wood smoke and a crackle of fire sends a bouquet of orange sparks into clear air. Raucous male voices ring out. You approach the edge of the cover and crouch behind a bush. The clearing is big and deeply rutted where large trucks have turned. On the far side a Toyota flatbed sits deep in tyre tracks that lead into the jungle. A log fire at the centre of the clearing throws dancing shadows around the overlooking trees. Three men are prancing around in front of the flames. Two are naked with smooth muscular bodies and long dark hair. One of these is waving a machete; the other is swigging from a bottle, head thrown back and his free arm out wide like half a crucifixion. The third man is white, stocky and dressed like a logger in peaked hat, denims and heavy boots. He is cranking out laughter and pistoning his fists. He seems to be egging the others on, perhaps to fight, probably to dance. Then the firelight finds another figure, sitting in the shadows by the truck, brown legs doubled and clasped in slender arms, long black hair thrown forward as though to hide the scene in front. It’s a young woman.

  The Indian with the bottle spits a stream into the fire and it flares. He hoots with deranged delight. The young woman raises her head and her face is lit for an instant, it’s the singer, Missy Jay, her eyes flashing. You can see by the way that she holds her hands together in front of her knees that she is bound. The white man laughs and takes a last puff from a cigar, flicks it into the flames and makes towards the girl. He calls out to the natives. They appear not to hear. They are facing one another now and raising their knees like prancing horses. First one then the other tosses his head back and lets out a long wavering shriek. You feel the prickle down your back.

  You check around your belt slowly. At your right hip you find the bone handle of a knife. You pull it free of the sheath and run a finger down six inches of steel blade – over the embossed lettering of the Falke logo.

  The logger walks to the girl and stands over her. He says something. She looks up and then looks away. He speaks again but this time she doesn’t react. You watch him lower himself to sit beside her. She stiffens. Her head points away. He checks the two Indians again. They are lost in their dance, both high. They are circling the fire and howling. Their dance is taking on a swagger. The logger turns his face to the woman and puts an arm out around her back. She leans away. Another hand tries to pass amongst the tangle of her limbs in front. She writhes and spits and he sneers angrily and lets her go. The Indians pass by the woman, strutting and flaunting themselves. They gesture to the logger and he rises and joins them in an unsteady imitation of their movement.

  You back away and make a wide circuit of the clearing, moving as quietly as you can and keeping a constant bearing on the whooping of the Indians and the crackle of the fire. The firelight reaches deep into the jungle over your head. For a moment there’s a reflection somewhere high up, like glass. You look quickly away. You check once to see where you are, approaching the edge of the clearing by crawling flat on your belly under thick fronds. The logger is drinking from the bottle and both Indians are waving machetes and chanting. The young woman sits in the same position. From this closer range you can see how beautiful she is. She has a determined dignity in her wide cheekbones and defiance in her uplifted chin. Her hair is down, quite unlike the style in her videos of late, more natural. She is dressed in the remnant of a shiny green dress and a flimsy shift, barefoot. Her hands are tied together and the rope runs to the bull bars on the front of the truck.

  You retreat and make your way around in an arc until you reach the tyre tracks. The entrance to the clearing and the black shape of the Toyota are a stencil for the orange firelight. You approach softly down the track on the blind side. Your heart is not playing along; it wants to give the game away. You can see the fire by looking at an angle through the side window and windscreen of the truck. You plant your feet carefully. If the woman ducked down she might see your feet under the vehicle. You press your face against the metal panel of the door with your eyes just able to see through. One of the Indians shouts at the logger. All three figures are standing on the other side of the fire. The stocky figure holds up the bottle and up ends it to show that it is empty. The Indian looks angry and yells something, then passes a quieter complaint to his companion. The logger calls back and gestures to the girl, a suggestion in his tone. He repeats the call. The Indians stop their dancing and seem suddenly serious. There is another sharp demand from one of them. The logger calls out ‘Okay, Okay’ and heads towards you. You duck down. You can hear his footsteps and his swearing as he approaches. He is on the other side of the truck and he opens the door. He must have done something to the woman as she gives a brief cry of complaint. There is another gruff oath, the sound of rummaging in the cabin, glass clinking and then the door slams shut and he is walking away and calling out. You step quickly around the back of the truck and along the other side. The young woman is directly in front and hears you at the last minute. She turns her head and you put a finger to your lips. Her eyes are wide and her mouth open in surprise. You point to your eyes and then to the Indians. The three figures are huddled together close to the fire, passing the bottle between them. You see her take it in, trust the lesser of two evils and turn her head. You step into firelight and alongside her. She is shaking her head as you put the blade to the rope. It is tough and you saw for several seconds before it gives way.

  ‘They’ll kill you. Who are you?’ Her voice is heavily accented with Spanish but the English is clear. Then she cries out: ‘Look out, they’re coming.’

  All three in a line. They are cautious at first, disbelieving, and they approach steadily. The white calls out. ‘Hey, what you want, man?’ Then as an afterthought ‘We got guns.’

  You pull Missy Jay to her feet. She is unsteady and holds your shoulder. Her face is close. ‘They are bad men. They will kill you. You must run.’

  But you don’t. The Indians are looking beyond you. They want to know if you are alone. The machetes are held tight, pointing towards you. They are speaking quickly to one another and looking about the edge of the clearing.

  Stocky again: ‘Hey, Mister, You come to join our party?’

  ‘Party’s over. We’re leaving.’

  The Indians have divided and are passing on either side of the logger, headed into peripheral vision. He is coming towards you, cautious, curious. ‘Leaving already? But you’re gonna miss all the fun. We had something special planned. Matter of fact, that little lady is part of the plan….How’d you get here anyway, eh?’

  ‘I flew. Now I’m leaving. We’re leaving.’

  He looks left and right behind you and forces a grin. He’s close now but doesn’t move forward. ‘Oh, right, you’re leaving. You don’t like our little party, eh? We
ll maybe we can find another thing you…’

  You move away from the girl and turn. It comes overhead and your reflex meets it; crossed hands catch the Indian’s arm in descent, fingers twisting his wrist, a step inside his arc and your hip has him off balance as you stretch the machete wrist forward, his elbow reversed on your shoulder. His body rises to stop the break and your free elbow bolts into his gut once…twice and the machete falls. You twist him down with the broken arm. Stocky moves forward and then checks himself, his eyes betraying the other Indian, now approaching from the other side of the truck. You watch the machete come around the front of the truck, a two foot blade, molten with firelight, the Indian stalking behind. The blade is dirty and rough but has a bright edge that has been worked to razor sharpness. His face is set in a mask of aggression, mouth wide open and eyes flashing. Stocky retreats to the fire and starts pulling on a flaming branch. You hear the girl behind you. ‘Come, quickly, they’ll kill you.’

  You draw the knife and hold it out in front. The Indian is making low chanting noises and advancing steadily. He steps sideways, almost crouching. He holds the machete with both hands, as though restraining it from flight. There are lines of sweat on the bunched muscles in his chest. From the corner of your eye you see a new brightness separate from the larger brightness of the fire and creep forward. Then he springs. You jump back at the first pass and the big blade skitters on the bonnet of the truck and then swishes a second time, surprisingly close. The Indian lunges and the blade sharks past your cheek as you jump in to meet him, deflecting the danger arm away with a forearm and then holding, plunging your own blade in…up…round. His body sags, slick and suddenly heavy against you and you feel wet hair on your neck. His legs are already jelly when you trip him. It takes a moment to disentangle as he drops and you sense the blow before it lands. That’s enough to avoid the head shot. The heat sears briefly on one shoulder and then a stain of pain spreads across your back. It’s a big heavy branch and Stocky can’t swing it again fast enough to catch you before you bring the blade up to defend yourself. Sparks and ash fill your face as you lever the knife against the burning wood. But the force of his blow throws you back on to the bonnet of the truck and your arms fold under the pressure as he pushes on top. The flaking embers are flying everywhere as you kick out. He is strong and his weight bears down. All you can see is red and silver, evanescing in the hot breaths as you struggle, inching down to your face as your strength subsides.

  You hear her shout and the dull sound of a strike. Stocky stiffens for an instant and then is sliding away. The girl replaces him, silhouetted in the flames, the bloody machete in her hand following his slow, sliding progress to the ground.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says softly.

  The shoulder is sore but moves freely. The cloth of your shirt has burned.

  ‘I’m okay’.

  ‘The other one went.’ She waves the machete behind, he went there. We must go now.’

  She takes your hand and draws you to her. ‘Thank you, whoever you are. You saved my life.’ She leads you away across the clearing. ‘Come…come with me.’

  She walks ahead and finds an invisible path into the jungle. You follow in her footsteps, weaving amongst the touches and textures of the forest as they block, then brush and finally bare the secret route that meanders amongst them. The firelight is quickly gone and only the faintest moonlight breaks through to sketch a cathedral window high amongst branches and leaves. She finds your hand to guide you through dense shadows. The sounds of the jungle have returned. Then the path slopes down and leads by natural steps to a pool. The branch of a tree points the way down and provides a hand rail. The bark is powdery, smells of cinnamon. She slips out of her dress and walks naked into the water. ‘Come,’ she says, ‘come with me.’ There is just enough light on her body to raise a shine that bleeds into widening ripples as she wades out and down. You watch for several seconds, and then pull off your boots and discard your clothes. The night air is fresh on your skin and the water warm as it climbs your legs. You walk out to her and she turns and holds you, scooping water to gently wash your shoulder. Your hands slip around her waist. You feel the touch of her belly, her breasts, as you hold one another tight.

  ‘Are you ok?’ you whisper, but she captures your question in a kiss.

  The water is a waistband. There is warmth above and beneath. The moonlight winks and a heavy drop of rain smacks a broad leaf nearby. A few random flinches of foliage become a two-step and then a fusillade. The forest hisses and the hiss becomes a roar. Her lips broaden to a smile but stay connected in the kiss. Together you sink down into the water until the surface is a collar. Your bodies twine beneath. The rain seems to be falling so far through galleries of leaves and steam to reach you, wet on your lips, slick on your scalp, beating its warm, irrelevant tattoo.

  Eleven

  Trigger and Woho are the main Escalon derivative supplements and they are getting a bad reputation. The manufacturers talk of harmless sugar-based tonics to keep the body primed for a demanding mental experience, the equivalent of taking chocolate on a hill walk, but the buzz on the web is they can give you a heart attack. The government has tried to ban them but everyone knows a street corner where you can buy a switch.

  It hardly seems a month or two since the early advertisements for KomViva (remember when those snooty questions seemed original? Do you still brew your own beer? What would you rather be doing tonight? Then the first ones to carry the name: There’s a word for people who pleasure themselves: There’s a new word for people who don’t…KomViva!).

  Now there’s a new show coming on Network One. They call it Sensomondo and they say you won’t need enhancers. Four individuals will be selected by the general public as the people whose sensations they most want to have, two girls and two boys picked out of thousands of applicants. The show will follow them in intimate detail as each one tries to outdo the others and then share their experience with the viewers. They think they will be the most voracious, passionate, sensitive and sensation-driven of the group. Don’t you wish you could be inside that body, feel what he’s feeling? Look at her! Listen to her tell you what it was like doing all those crazy things you’d always fancied doing. All of this series is a long preamble for the real thing. The winners will undergo the operation to enable them to deliver the coming additional KomViva service over Petanet. A new wave of helmet devices is going on sale. They hammer it home on all the right web forums and the blogs that Network One likes to use. There are discussions about the operation the Sensomandos will undergo, the risks, and some shallow science. This is reality entertainment and there have to be risks. It’s part of the deal. Will people go for it? A million each when they sign and to become the kind of celebrity this is going to create? You bet they will. It’s unique. What could they do? Vote for what you want them to do.

  The advertisements stir up a predictable storm of complaint. KomViva has grown big but remains largely an illicit activity. This pushes it into the mainstream, into opposition. Even the church takes a line. KomViva threatens to violate notions of personal responsibility and encourages the worst forms of excess. The Bishop of London denounces it as a cocktail of prurience, schadenfreude and vacuous juvenility. No one knows what he is talking about but it sounds great! In the meantime the politicians are clucking about thousands of jobs. Quang Ji electronics announce they have shortlisted the UK for their European finishing and distribution complex for KomViva-branded equipment and a corroborating plot of several square kilometres of mud outside Slough has suddenly come out in a rash of digger tracks and perimeter fencing. The locals call it West Korea.

  The opening programme and the first heat has a hundred youngsters and some not so young (but see how eager, how alive, and how full of compensatory zest) cavorting in the corridors of an anonymous conference centre, waiting to be summoned for their brief moment before the panel. How many ways are there to interpret the requirement to prove you deserve to be the nerves of the na
tion?

  The opening shots confirm that this is for the most part a licence for insanity. Some of these kids appear to be stoned, wandering open mouthed from one reverent tactile encounter to the next; others are emoting as though in a primary school drama lesson or a silent movie; a minority watch and wait and keep their counsel. The camera lingers over one youth who has arrived naked and worked up an erection with which he is introducing himself to every female. It only takes a few approaches before the instinct to recoil is overwhelmed by the opportunity to perform. This dick has a camera behind it. Suddenly there are plenty of takers.

  Inside the audition room the first candidate is answering questions. Every hopeful has submitted a ‘video info pack’ in order to be selected. This individual has been videoed while his friends turn his exposed torso into a human pin cushion. The finale is a close up of him having his tongue stapled to a card that reads yours fearlessly, Paul Cotton. Of course they show that. Of course they don’t put him through.

  Next, a girl in jeans and a tee shirt (hasn’t she tried?) whose pack features a monologue to camera:

  ‘All my life I have been extraordinarily sensitive,’ she says, her blonde eyebrows wriggling even then at some unseen stimulus. ‘My parents often tell people that I have a sixth sense. I can always tell even before the forecast what it is going to do the next day – the weather I mean. When I was at school I suffered from hay fever that sometimes stopped me playing games. I used to sit inside and dream of playing with the other girls but I couldn’t. I just had to sit there and work. I realised that if I concentrated hard enough though I could be out there with them. One day I followed the whole game – it was hockey and I saw them score the goals. I was able to tell them afterwards who had scored and everything. You couldn’t see the pitch from where I was.’