The Year of the Hydra

by William Broughton Burt

  “Could you possibly chill?” suggests Lil.

  “They are the Opponent,” says Tree, still smiling. “That’s all. They shape-shift. They adapt like a virus. All I can tell you for certain is, the closer we get to what we came here to do, the nearer at hand they will be.”

  That’s another thing I’ve never quite gotten. What we came here to do. I let it pass. Tree’s starting to sound like her radio show, Lillian’s sending me her little looks, and my head feels like it just spent forty-nine minutes fisting Aileen Carol Wuornos. And I think we may have dematerialized our waiter.

  “I know you don’t get it,” Tree tells me. “I don’t either, baby, not on the intellectual level. But I know what’s true, and so do you. Our bones know.”

  I avoid Tree’s eyes. I think my bones and hers may have attended different meetings. Tree once announced quite importantly that she was the Chohan of the Sixth Ray and went into quite some detail about why she’d taken physical form at this time. It was the usual laundry list. Saving the world, eliminating corporations and diagonally-striped ties, establishing an International Day of the Worm. The usual. She said nothing at all about channeling final chapters of really promising novels, but she was in trance at the time. Afterward, Tree denied having said anything at all.

  “My blood sugar’s hitting bottom,” says Lil. “Does this place have a kitchen?”

  “This place has a refrigerator,” I tell her. “It may be full of lemon ice-box pie. Why don’t you ask?”

  “I don’t know the word for lemon ice-box pie,” she says.

  “That was a joke, Lillian.”

  “I know it was a joke, asshole. I was just saying I don’t know the word.”

  I look at my sister. “You think there’s one Chinese word for lemon ice-box pie?”

  “Kids… ,” says Tree.

  Lil’s voice rises. “Like you know jack shit about lexical syntax in Mandarin.”

  “This meeting was not intended to be a general assembly,” I say through my teeth. “I invited Tree for a drink. Tree. For a drink.”

  “Like I’m supposed to control being kurbitzed, you totally self-absorbed—”

  “Kids… ?”

  I turn to Tree. “Shatrina. Dr. Carter. Her Hoodoo-ness. I need a new ending for that book.”

  “Ain’t none of me,” says Tree, turning away.

  “Well, it ain’t none of me neither,” I say irritably, “which I believe to be the salient point. I tried writing that final chapter. I couldn’t do it. It’s going to have to come from the same place as the previous twelve.”

  “Jules,” says Tree, “Truman never intended to write that whole book for you, and you know it. He gave you an idea and that’s all, baby. An idea. But you kept asking him for more and more till finally he quit.”

  “She’s right,” says Lil. “You totally blew it with Truman, man.”

  I close my eyes and try to count to ten. I make it to two.

  “You’re both right, of course,” I say, my voice perfectly controlled. “But, as our little friend Truman may not actually exist outside of Tree’s lovely head, so far as can be objectively determined, and as I have bills that are quantifiable, I’d kind of like to give it another go.”

  Tree says, “Truman comes when he comes, and he gives what he gives. If I were you, Jules, I’d concentrate less on that book and more on getting my situation together, if you know what I’m talking about.”

  I don’t reply. What’s to say, finally, about my situation.

  “Look, kids,” says Tree, “why don’t we just put ourselves to bed? Tomorrow’s a brand new day.”

  “With sine waves within sine waves,” I mutter, searching again for the dematerialized waiter.

  “Why don’t you, like, go write something?” says my sister. “Isn’t that what writers, like, do?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I say importantly, “I’m on assignment. I leave tomorrow for Yunnan Province, and I’m not sure when I’ll return.”

  I throw down the last of the red, and the two women stare.

  Beijing just doesn’t seem the place for me right now. It’s beginning to wear that a city of this size doesn’t have a Chinatown.

  Chapter Five

  On the occasion of my third birthday, I received notification from our mother that being two was no longer a possibility. I took it badly, Two having been my identity for as long as I could recall. All I’d had to do was pronounce its name to be heartily congratulated by whomever was present. I was no taller than a footstool, and I had the world dicked. All you had to do was say two. Then one day all of that is gone and there’s nothing to be done about it.

  Three, I found, had an entirely different sound, energy, and color. Two had been a solid, grounded navy blue. Three I found to be a floaty canary yellow. Three was expansive and ephemeral and just generally unacceptable as a representation of myself. And the audience response was nothing like before. Actually I remained a secret Two for quite some time. I did eventually discover the important information hub that Three constitutes, but by then I was thirty-three years old.

  Point three three three.

  There’s no escaping Kenny J’s dimly expectant saxophone anywhere on this southbound train, but tree mammals were never intended to possess sound-amplifying devices, say nothing of saxophones. This particular track I’d describe as a slightly perplexed line of self-aggrandizing male emotio-logic extended to the high B breaking point that sutures the bridge to the remaining six or seven grumpy minutes of failed rationalization—as you finish the oversweet Chinese ice-cream cone you wish you’d never begun. Which is to say, I got out of Beijing just in time. I was starting to have acid spit.

  You never know what’s going to stir your dusts. It can be as simple as a corner turned or a tunnel of trees taken by moonlight, or a train ticket purchased because someone spoke the word Yunnan and it lodged inside you.

  A bit stupidly, I watch as the window of this first-class cabin frames a brilliant cloudless sunset, then a sunrise followed by another sunset and sunrise, as the steel tracks undulate, rising and falling to hug this mute mountainside, that delicate dale. “The curved line belongs to God,” said Gaudi but it was borrowed freely by the French who laid these rails a century ago, keeping to the mountainsides, high above the fields and their muds and floods as did the Taoists with their immortality highways, always a tasteful distance from the torpid valleys where the misery of history wends and no one’s the wiser.

  My non-English speaking cabin-mate wakes himself by snoring and responds by sitting upright, yawning loudly, belching a couple of times, and lighting a cigarette, as, along the narrow corridor, a blue-uniformed woman pushes an overloaded fruit cart. I decide to dart in front of her before the cart blocks the forward corridor. A sorely needed visit to the loo—I shudder at the thought—then I’ll return to the cabin to wash my hands the requisite three times, dry them on a shirt from my bag, and settle into the dining car for an early dinner and the day’s final view to the east.

  Past the advancing fruit cart and around a sheet-metal corner are three other people awaiting the same mournful toilet, a same-sex squatter with a metal floor floating in pee. No toilet paper. No soap. No running water. No towel. “No Occupying While Stabling.” That’s what the sign above the door says, meaning when the train stops, so do you. There’s no holding tank.

  Earlier today, I found myself corridor-waiting behind another Westerner, a most fetching one who smelled deliciously of bed. She seemed to have just awakened, the whole tousled tresses thing, lots of brunette hair, her body radiating heat, her breath not yet entirely regular, and I asked myself what conversation one makes while awaiting the same toilet on a southbound Chinese train. “Do you think you’ll be long?” Or maybe, “Ever occupied while stabling?” Quite certainly, “May God be with you.”

  Now, after taking my turn then purging my hands to the elbows, I seat myself at the only available table in the crowded dining car, which is oak-handsome with little white
curtains and white tablecloths. I order a bottle of Zinfandel with tonight’s seafood one-course, and why not? There’s a subtly reassuring back-and-forth sway to the dining car, my number-two German-made pencil is deliciously sharp, and the background music is a cheerful trombone deformation of “Auld Lang Syne,” perfect for a mid-August evening. If this were prime Hitchcock, Eva Marie Saint would walk into the dining car exactly now, a pensive expression on her face, and I’d have a perfect line on the tip of my tongue.

  No sooner does the thought occur than the door opens, and in walks our lady of the tousled tresses, the fetching Westerner I’d encountered this morning in the corridor. Even more amazing, the only available chair is at my table, making it all too easy for me to rise and say, “Would you like to join me? I’ve ordered a bottle of wine, and I’d hate to drink it alone.”

  Damn, that was a good line.

  “A glass of wine would be perfect,” replies tousled lady, extending her hand. “I’m Ana Manguella.”

  She uses the Spanish soft-a pronunciation of her first name. The surname comes out mahn-gay-yuh, also quite Spanish, though the accent is crisply British.

  Ana Manguella takes a seat, and I find myself gazing into eyes of astonishing blue-green. When I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out because, my God, this woman’s eyes are not blue-green. One is blue. One is green. In their setting of bone-white skin, the eyes blaze like two cold jewels.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sure you hear compliments about your eyes all the time. They are very beautiful. I’m Julian Mancer.”

  “So nice to meet you, Julian.”

  Ana is in her thirties, I’d say, and unmarried if rings still mean anything. The treasonable brunette hair is now gathered into a rough ponytail. At her throat is a silk scarf, azure in color, which brings forward the left eye. She’s wearing at least one tinted contact, I decide.

  “Please help me place the accent,” I say. “I want to say Edinburgh, but I’m wrong a lot.”

  “Glastonbury,” says Ana. “And you would be an American? From the South?”

  “Yes and yes. What do you think of our background music?”

  Ana cants her head to listen, and I notice her small porcelain hands. Yet the fingertips are blunt and strong. Close-cropped nails. I can easily see Ana Manguella pulling a pack of Gauloises from her bag.

  “Oh, Robert Burns,” she says. “Don’t often get to hear that one in summer, do we?”

  I say, “The Chinese love Burns. Any man who can father seven sons and drink himself to death before turning forty clearly has something going for him.”

  “Really? Seven sons?”

  “And three daughters,” I add, hoping I’m somewhere near right.

  The Zinfandel arrives, and I request a second glass before asking Ana’s destination.

  “Hong Kong,” she replies. “And you?”

  “I fly from Hong Kong to Kunming in the morning.”

  Ana tells me she’s taken a post with a Hong Kong consulting firm. “Boring stuff,” she says.

  “Then what do you find interesting?”

  After an appraising glance, she answers, “Actually I enjoy the study of mythology very much. And you?”

  “Some say that myth is the most direct way to describe reality,” I reply, playing my most promising card. “Or, conversely, that reality is a clumsy way of describing myth. Either way, we do enjoy telling ourselves stories, don’t we?”

  “Indeed we do. And what do you do, Julian?”

  “Write them. Stories, that is. I also play pointless math games. Do you wear a tinted contact?”

  Ana blinks before replying, “What kind of pointless math games?”

  “Very pointless ones. Actually, math may be the purest form of myth, and vice versa—once the cultural coloration is stripped away. It all reduces to a handful of corroborating equations, doesn’t it? Sorry about that last question, by the way, but the next will likely be far worse. I’ve no manners at all. “

  Our waiter appears with a second wine glass and deftly fills it.

  “So, you’re a philosopher then?” asks Ana.

  “I hope not. Philosophers are still working on the same four or five questions that came to mind two thousand years ago. I’d rather devote myself to something with a bit more promise, such as rehabilitating career criminals. Meanwhile, let’s hope we can endure this Zinfandel. The Chinese are very able counterfeiters, but a good dinner wine is something they’re still working on.”

  We each sip the Zinfandel. The taste changes after a moment, only to change once more. Not for the better, I’d say.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “I’ve had worse in Spain. You?”

  “Woody,” I say, squinting, “with just a touch of pomegranate and all-weather motor oil. Do you know the median lifetime for members of the animal kingdom?”

  “Am I supposed to?”

  “It’s not very long,” I say. “Fifteen point two days. Some insects cycle in a single day, as you probably know.”

  “And you bring this up because—?”

  “Exactly. Because. But enough about me. Why the interest in myth, Ana Manguella?”

  “Passion,” she replies. “Unpredictability. There’s no telling what the gods will do on a given day, but it’s certain to be interesting.”

  “And naughty,” I add.

  “Oh, of course naughty. Why be a god if you’re just going to behave?”

  I let Ana Manguella’s question glisten for a moment, as do each of her eyes. The yellowing light is hitting the green one just right to reveal that it harbors no contact lens, tinted or otherwise. I really do have no manners. I once asked a woman on a plane whether her hinder parts included a tattoo of a gull in flight. A simple enough question, I’d thought, and it might have been, had the answer been no.

  The seafood one-course arrives. Ana is as hungry as I, and we willingly drop the conversation until the table has been cleared. Night seems to have fallen. Pushing away from the table, I say, “So, you’re leaving Glastonbury in your dust? Why?”

  Sitting back, Ana says, “I hated going, but Hong Kong is such a rare opportunity. Have you been?”

  “Is there a pack of Gauloises in your bag?” I ask.

  Ana stares at me. “Would you like one?”

  “Just wondering. I visited Hong Kong some years ago when it was still a proper British colony. I understand you can still get your hands on a blood pudding. What was with Hermaphroditus, by the way, since we’re discussing myth?”

  Ana’s shoulders sag a little. “Julian, why don’t we just go for normal train conversation? It’s better for the digestion. You can tell me what you found enjoyable about Beijing, and I can tell you which tourist attractions to avoid in Glastonbury. And Hermaphroditus was every aspect of herself. Himself if you prefer.”

  “Itself,” I suggest. “Beijing was horrid. I did find the Diligent Administration Hall somewhat appealing, though Mao’s three GE refrigerators are no longer on display. Did you visit the Temple of Heaven?”

  She shakes her tresses.

  “Pure numerology,” I say. “Nines, all of it.”

  “Didn’t the emperor pray there once a year?” asks Ana. “To ensure good crops and the like?”

  “Three times a year, after a night of fasting and praying in the Hall of Abstinence. Next morning he took a stroll to the Circular Mound Altar where bits of human sacrifice simmered in the—”

  “Human sacrifice? Really?”

  “No one you or I know personally. Actually I doubt whether the emperor himself knew what that temple complex was designed to accomplish. Not that I do, mind you, but I did come away with the impression that I’d encountered an engine of some kind, one powered by a very intentional mathematics. Math is all well and good, if you’re asking me, so long as it remains theoretical. More wine?”

  “Half, please.”

  “There’s an example for you—half. Hugely theoretical. According to this notion, no matter what y
ou have, it can continue to be divided into identical halves forever. Poppycock. Still, a harmless enough notion in itself—until someone decided to halve an atom. Applied mathematics. Not recommended. Here’s your half-glass of wine just the same.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Take this Temple of Heaven,” I continue. “All those dovetailed nines in one place. To me, that has to constitute some kind of probability antenna, some means of separating out a specific outcome, though who’s to say what.”

  “Could I ask you something personal?” asks Ana.

  “Would you?”

  “What exactly is your interest in flowers?”

  I gaze into the flawless white face. “I’ve an interest in flowers?”

  “Or they in you,” says Ana. “You’re practically wrapped head-to-toe in a floral display of some kind. I read auras. Hope you don’t mind.”

  My eyes tip down to her blouse for an instant. “I’m more of a fauna man, actually. But lately I have developed a mild curiosity concerning hydrangeas.”

  Ana blinks, consulting her memory. “Sun. Lots of moisture. Sandy soil. You’re not to over-prune them.”

  “Really? Surprising. You could hack at the Hydra all day and never get its attention.”

  “The Hydra?” says Ana. “I’d never thought to connect the hydrangea to the Hydra. I should have. The Twelve Labors of Heracles is one of my favorite stories.”

  “Do you mean Hercules?”

  “Oh, the Romans gave him that name,” says Ana. “To the Greeks, he’d been Heracles for quite some time. Before that, he was Osiris. He has also been known as Horus and Krishna and Jesus. Amazing, really, how many civilizations have been shaped by this single story of a man who couldn’t handle his own power. A man with a god for a father and a mortal for a mother.”

  “Dangerous mix.”

  “Evidently,” says Ana. “Heracles awoke from a stupor one morning to find that he’d murdered his whole family. His only chance for redemption was to accomplish a number of tasks, as you know, the last of which was subduing the Hydra.”