The Drift

by Chris Thrall

  Using his palm as a hydrofoil, Hans popped his life jacket, and although creating drag, it kept his head above water, its pull-down hood fending off spray and enabling him to breathe.

  Why doesn’t the tension on the rope trip the self-steering? he wondered as Future forged ahead, making their reunion a formidable task.

  His strength waning, Hans inched along the rope, relieved to grasp the half hitches tied every three feet.

  Ninety yards . . . sixty . . . thirty . . . So close but so far.

  “Noooooo!”

  Forced to give up, Hans did not have the energy to heave anymore or to tie the line around him.

  Good-bye, my beautiful baby.

  He prepared himself for the inevitable, ready to let go and surrender to nature’s wet embrace.

  I’m sorry, my sweet pea. I’m so sorry.

  Light flooded the cockpit.

  “Papa!”

  “Jessie!”

  Above the noise of the howling wind and crashing ocean, Hans screamed, “Honey, swing the wheel around! All the way, like Daddy showed you!”

  He could see his daughter struggling to carry out his instructions, the storm tumbling her insignificant figure around the cockpit.

  Finally the line went slack.

  Oh, my girl!

  With a second wind, Hans swam the last few yards, spitting violently to expel the water invading his mouth and attempting to drown him. He clung to the stern ladder, regaining the strength to climb back aboard.

  “Penny, Papa! Penny’s not moving!”

  Hans swept her up and, seeing she had put her life jacket and harness on correctly and secured a safety line, burst into tears. Penny lay still in the cabin, Jessica having placed her in the recovery position. Hans checked her airway and breathing and her body for injuries. He found a nasty lump on the back of her head. His fingers came away wet with blood.

  “Jessie, I’m gonna strap Penny in her bunk. I need you to get in yours too while I go and set the storm sail.”

  He pulled the cover over Penny and saw her eyes flicker.

  “Hans . . . is that you?”

  “I’m here, honey.”

  “Hmm.” She smiled, clasping his hand before drifting into sleep.

  Leaving to go on deck, Hans heard “Papa!” He turned to see Jessica holding Bear out.

  “Huh?”

  “For Penny,” she whispered.

  - 22 -

  Al Mohzerer pulled up outside an ancient stone building on his farm. He flicked a half-smoked cigarette aside and hauled the plastic barrel off the pickup, eyeing the rusting tailgate with contempt. It was a bitter reminder that although his gang played a key role in the hashish trade, the majority of the profit filled the pockets of European drug lords.

  “Salaam alaikum.” Saleem, his aging foreman, appeared in the doorway, patting plant dust from his djellaba in a gesture of subservience.

  “And may peace be upon you,” Al Mohzerer replied in Arabic, before switching to French. “Le produit est prêt?”

  “Of course, sayyid. Allah has been good to us. Come, come.” He beckoned with his palm facing down.

  Behind the outhouse’s ramshackle façade lay a hive of activity as workers, eyes red from the cloud of cannabis dust, set about the final stages of preparation. Unlike Ahmed and Mohamed, these men had long since served out their indenture, earning the approval, if not the respect, of Al Mohzerer.

  Two of the gang beat the base foliage a second time and, using a sheet of muslin, sieved out the minute epidermal cells containing the highest level of tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) the plant’s psychotropic chemical, resulting in buckets of pure hash powder.

  Another team poured the valued commodity into cellophane bags and taped them up to form packets. They spiked the packets with tiny holes to prevent escaping air bursting them in the press. The machine itself consisted of a hydraulic truck jack set into a custom-built metal frame, which crushed the powder to create a block of hashish so solid you could hammer a nail in with it. The mold left an imprint of a Barbary macaque on the block to identify the product as Golden Monkey in the marketplace, a source of pride for Al Mohzerer. The final part of the process involved sealing the goods in wax and dusting them with fragrant powder to foil sniffer dogs before wrapping them in layers of brown parcel tape for export.

  The Grower sat cross-legged on a floor cushion as Saleem lifted a pot of mint tea from a wood-burning stove, filled two thimble-sized cups and dropped a sugar lump in each, the accepted protocol prior to discussing business.

  “Once again you have done me proud, old brother.” Al Mohzerer rarely bestowed such terms of endearment. “May Allah rain peace upon you.”

  “You are too kind, sayyid. I am but a simple man who does his best for his master.”

  Talking the talk handed down through the ages, Saleem crumbled ash from the fire into the bowel of a sipsi pipe and sprinkled on a layer of hash powder. Igniting the mix, he knew better than to offer it to the Grower, who would stick to his Maxims, a cheap imitation of the mighty Marlboro, knowing that for his boss the resultant paranoia from smoking the herb had long since outweighed its beneficial effects.

  “We go back a long way.” Al Mohzerer paused to empty his teacup. “A journey not without hardship.”

  Saleem stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, picturing the evil mountain bend and the faces of his wife and two boys. He shook himself. “And for our fathers before us, master.”

  “Indeed. Your father begged mine to break from the war and tend to the farm.”

  He spoke of the war of independence fought against the Spanish in the early part of the twentieth century.

  “But yours was a man of great honor who put the interests of the clan first and led its warriors into battle until the bitter end.” Saleem eased himself up, wincing as he refilled their drinks.

  “They both came home broken men,” Al Mohzerer muttered.

  “The only two who did return.” Saleem shook his head slowly.

  “But to what?” the Grower spat. “To fields gone to waste. My father leading a clan of women and dead men.”

  “Inshallah, sayyid. We cannot change the past. You did your best to recover the farm.”

  “For a while it was good.”

  “It was glorious.” Saleem gazed at the embers smoldering in the pipe’s bowel and smiled. “Supplying the greedy infidels with the magic herb made you a rich man.”

  “Then the cursed fungus destroyed the plants and made me poor once more. I sold off much of my family’s land to survive yet still had to pay the workers and the never-ending bribes.” The Grower swirled the dregs of tea around in the cup and then flicked them on the dusty floor.

  “It will come again, sayyid. There are moves far and wide to legalize the herb, and then there’s the medical market in Europe and America.”

  “You speak kind words, old friend, but the infidels grow their own product now. They no longer need our fertile earth and the blessed weather from Allah. It can all be bought on this thing they call the Internet and grown in their pox-ridden homes under artificial light that shines brighter than the midday sun.”

  Sensing Al Mohzerer’s growing antipathy, Saleem changed the subject.

  “And what of the two boys, sayyid? They show promise, no?”

  “Ha! Shemkara. Rats from the gutter with filthy poisoned lungs and treacherous minds.”

  “Please do not be hard on them, sayyid. They have only known suffering in their short years and could be your biggest asset in times to come. They carry the fire in their hearts . . . like we once did.”

  - 23 -

  Future rode out the storm under bare poles, a parachute sea anchor streamed from the bow to keep her into the wind and prevent further drama. When resetting the last-chance line, Hans found out why it had been difficult to locate and not tripped the steering mechanism – it had hooked around the rudder when Future keeled over. After checking on the girls, he changed into dry clothes and filled a thermos wit
h soup for the long night ahead, spent sitting upright in his sleeping bag catnapping in the cockpit.

  “Hello, handsome.” Penny handed him a mug of coffee.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Guess we had quite a night last night.”

  “You could say that. How’s the head?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I superglued the cut while you were out of it.”

  “Really?” Penny fingered the painful bump. “You’re quite the GI Joe, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve seen worse, but you should get it checked out when we reach La Coruña. How’s Jess?”

  “Zonked.” Penny smiled briefly before catching the emotion in Hans’ eyes. “What happened, honey?”

  With the sun burning a hole in the miserable gray ceiling and Future making light work of the remaining swell, Hans retold events.

  Penny listened aghast. When he had finished, their mutual silence conveyed the debt of gratitude owed to this marvelous kid.

  After a time Penny chirped up, “Hey! You know what they say?”

  “No. What do they say?”

  “Worse things happen at sea.”

  Her quip lightened the mood and, together with the morning rays now ricocheting off the water, reminded Hans this trip was supposed to be fun.

  “Hot chocolate?” he tempted. “With a li-ttle shot of rum?”

  “Hmm!” Penny beamed. “Be rude not to.”

  Snuggling together, the spirit working its magic, both experienced sheer bliss in the calm after the storm.

  “Après ski,” Penny murmured.

  “Après ski?”

  “This feeling – like downing a large brandy after a day on the slopes.”

  “Right, erm, hot bath after a jog in the rain?”

  “Mmm . . . Fire on the beach after a dip in the sea.”

  “Sauna after rolling naked in the snow . . .”

  “Hey?”

  “Oh, must be a military thing.”

  Whatever the feeling, neither of them wanted to be anywhere else at any other time in history.

  “Sandwiches!”

  Standing in the companionway, mouth smeared in blackcurrant jam, the first mate looked pleased with her effort.

  “Oh, sweet pea! Did you make them for us?” Penny took the plate stacked with irregularly chopped offerings.

  Upon closer inspection, “sandwiches” proved to be a generous description in view of the distinct lack of filling splattered between slices of bread like Rorschach’s inkblots, but Hans and Penny wolfed them down nonetheless.

  “So who was a big, brave girl last night?” Penny cleaned Jessica’s face with a wet wipe. “Did you tell Daddy I banged my head?”

  “Hmm! Daddy got all wet.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Will Marshell be okay? Did Siska fall down too?”

  “Oh . . .” Penny glanced at Hans. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s been in much worse weather than this.”

  Sweeee-sweeee! A tiny bird alighted on the spreader, fluffing its orange and turquoise plumage to dry off the spray.

  “Land ahoy!” Hans spotted the Spanish coastline on the horizon. “La Coruña for lunch!”

  An hour later a rocky headland covered in sparse grass like a worn-out toupee loomed over them.

  “Check that out.” Standing at the helm, Penny pointed at the cliff top.

  Hans and Jessica looked up to see a bunch of weird Easter Island–like statues and someone’s idea of a futuristic take on Stonehenge.

  “Modern art?” asked Hans.

  “I guess so.” Penny grinned. “But that tall building there—”

  Hans eyed the striking obelisk.

  “Tower of Hercules. World’s first-known lighthouse. Dates back to Roman times.”

  “Wow, that’s four hundred years earlier than our oldest Native American monument.”

  For Hans the trip was already the experience of a lifetime, despite last night’s challenges. In the military, while on NATO training exercises in the Norwegian Arctic, he had taken a week’s leave to explore his roots in neighboring Sweden. Indulging in enormous smorgasbords washed down with brännvin and öl while immersed in the history and culture of his Scandinavian ancestors had been a revelation, and visiting a Viking museum in picturesque Stockholm a welcome break from skiing for days in full equipment and living in snow caves. But something about Europe was unique, as if it offered a lens through which to view the United States into context.

  - 24 -

  “He has the heart of a rock.” Mohamed attacked the plate of olives, goat cheese and flatbread.

  “And the bitterness of a thousand lemons.” Ahmed spat a stone into the long grass.

  “Do not be so quick to judge another before you have carried the weight of their burden and understand what it is that makes them heavy of chest,” Saleem interjected, though in truth he empathized with the boys.

  Ahmed and Mohamed swapped glances, knowing exactly where their loyalties lay.

  They looked forward to lunch with Saleem, Al Mohzerer’s trusted foreman. A kindly old man, he lived in a cottage on the farm, his history with the Grower spanning generations. Eating with him in the soft grass in front of the farmhouse provided a welcome break from the boredom of the hut and the endless harvesting of plants out on the terraces. As with countless waifs over the years, Saleem had taken the youngsters under his wing, showing them the love he once felt for his own two boys.

  “Look about you.” Saleem cast an arm over the land. “One hundred years ago this farm thrived, yielding rich crops of barley and wheat, while herds of sheep and goat grazed as far as the eye could see.”

  Only knowing the farm to grow marijuana, Ahmed and Mohamed were fascinated, as always falling under the spell of Saleem’s fatherly talk. Not a single cloud interrupted the pristine sky, just the fluffy white plumage of Atlas flycatchers as they climbed and dipped in search of juicy delights to feed gluttonous clutches.

  “What do you know of the Berbers?”

  The boys looked at each other, faces a blank.

  “The clans have lived in the Rif since time began. Fierce men, loyal women, no one would ever take this land from them, and certainly not the Spanish invaders.”

  As the old man spoke, a butterfly alighted on his knee and began to pad around in a clumsy circle on the white cotton of his djellaba. A collage of zebra stripes, sunburst reds and yellows and oranges, and mock eyes emblazoned the finely ribbed sections of the insect’s wings, and despite failing eyesight, Saleem could make out tiny black arrowheads marking the wings’ serrated edges.

  Prior to their arrival at the farm, the boys had never seen such beautiful creatures, but out of habit Mohamed raised his palm and took a swipe.

  “Stop!” Ahmed blocked his friend’s arm and gave him a look of thunder.

  “The ancients believed that when a butterfly lands you can give it a message to take to loved ones in heaven,” said Saleem.

  As the insect lifted into the air, he appeared to lose his train of thought before continuing the story. “Al Mohzerer’s father was the great Saeed, leader of the Zayenesh clan, shrewd but compassionate and greatly respected by his people. In the summer of 1921, he sat in this exact spot” – Saleem stroked the long green stems – “applying a splint to the leg of an injured lamb. He heard the sound of beating hooves and looked up to see a figure approaching on horseback. A boy your age” – Saleem’s eyes glinted as they had at this part of the tale many times before – “dismounted and delivered a message that would change the family’s fortune forever.”

  The boys followed his gaze to see the stone trough the messenger’s horse drank from all those years ago.

  “Spanish troops had breached the Rif’s eastern border and set up a military outpost in the foothills of the Abarran Mountains. The great Saeed had heard enough. ‘We ride!’ he replied, and within an hour the men of the Zayenesh mounted and rode east to join the coalition, their horses kicking up a plume of dust visible for mi
les around.

  “The Berber tribesmen had a long tradition of fighting and a high standard of fieldcraft, but lacked weapons. Saeed advised Abd el-Krim, their charismatic leader, to send men into battle with a rifle between two, so should a Berber fall his brother could continue the fight.”

  “Men went into battle without a gun?” Ahmed looked at Saleem in disbelief.

  “The men went into battle with the loyalty of the clan and the hearts of lions. A force of five hundred descended on the Spanish, rifles blazing and scimitars drawn, massacring two hundred of the infidels. Word spread, and the Riffian ranks swelled. They attacked a hundred more encampments, employing guerilla tactics, captured weapons and killed thousands more enemy, laughing as the Spanish fled north to the coast.”

  “Al Saeed was a hero!” Mohamed stared into Saleem’s cloudy eyes.

  “Saeed was a simple farmer who had to decide whether to return to his land and tend to the crops and livestock or stay by the side of Abd el-Krim. He chose to remain.”

  “Did they slay the remaining infidels like dogs?” Ahmed’s pupils widened as he spoiled for the fight.

  “The Spanish troops were no match for us Berbers, who have only ever known hardship and suffering. Our numbers grew to eighty thousand, and we drove the remaining scum back to Melilla in the east.”

  “Yaaaah!” Mohamed swung a mock scimitar, imagining a lopped enemy head spurting blood as it flew through the air.

  “But Abd el-Krim made a foolish error. Rather than close in on Melilla and cut the infidels down like grass” – Saleem ripped up a handful of stalks and let the breeze flutter them from his palm – “he began to wage war on the occupying French in the west.”

  “Why let the snake grow another head?” Mohamed felt betrayed.

  Saleem pulled a sipsi pipe and a small ivory box from the sleeve of his djellaba. “You are wise for one so young.” He took a pinch of hash powder from the ornate holder and thumbed it into the pipe’s bowel. “Abd el-Krim feared reprisals from other European nations who had interests in Melilla.” He lit a match and circled it around his preparation while drawing on the pipe’s stem, blowing a plume of yellowy-brown smoke into the fresh mountain air.