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The next day, Denise and Vannie had the head table to themselves. It had been this way since they got back from Serelia. Denise saw Jack as he limped to his table sporting a nose splint and other bandages.
“I can’t believe he’s back in class this quick,” Denise said. “From what I heard, whoever did this did a number on him.”
“Maybe Madeleine prayed for him,” Vannie mused.
“Go blow!” Denise came back. “You’re the most superstitious person I ever met.”
“Pete still not speaking to you?” Vannie asked, changing the subject.
“No,” Denise replied dejectedly. “He won’t even look at me. He told me Monday ‘I thought you were going with me,’ and that was it. A lot of people aren’t talking with me these days—you’d think I got the plague up there.”
“They’ll come back,” Vannie assured her. “As you always say, they know it feels good. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Don’t remind me of that,” Denise said.
“Denise, did you have anything to do with Jack getting beat up? If you don’t want to answer that, just say so.”
“I talked with Dad about Jack,” Denise answered. “If it were up to me, he wouldn’t be here, you can bet on that. But Dad does what he thinks is best. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s not. But I’ve got a hunch that Jack’s a short timer around here, a long with a lot of other people. All of these twits—Jack, Maddy, Carla—they’re all short timers. Like Pressed Rat and Warthog, they’ll never come back. Trust me.”
“We’re supposed to graduate in less than four months,” Vannie observed.
“That’s not short enough for me,” Denise said, “but it’s probably short enough for Dad.”

Carla used her last class to think about tennis practice. She was unbeaten in regular season; only her fall to Denise at Beran marred her record. She was looking forward to taking Denise on again in the Collina Invitational, the unofficial championship tournament of secondary school tennis in the West Island.
With class ending, she left to head to the locker room to change, but was met in the hall by her nemesis, Colin Dirksen.
“The Headmaster would like to see you,” he announced to her.
“Me? Now?”
“Both in the affirmative.” She was mystified but accompanied him to the office.
For reasons that buffaloed parent and student alike, Hallett Comprehensive got a new headmaster at the turn of the year, a Californian in his late twenties named Frank Noll. Noll had long hair and looked every inch of the Cal graduate that he was. Like Hancock, he left to escape the clutches of Selective Service, first to Canada and then to Verecunda when the job he held came open. Noll’s tenure had been a rocky one, and Carla was apprehensive about the meeting.
She came into his office with Dirksen right behind. “Have a seat, Miss Stanley,” Noll said. Dirksen followed suit.
“I understand you’re having quite a season at tennis,” Noll began.
“It’s going well,” Carla said, very nervous and defensive.
“That’s good,” Noll said. “And you’ve kept up your grades as well.”
“I try very hard. It isn’t easy to work, play tennis and do that at the same time.”
“Shows a young woman who is very committed to her future,” Noll affirmed. “Do you remember when Mr. Dirksen here visited your place of work back in December and asked you to join our new Life Identification Society?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“And you declined his invitation.”
“Yes, sir, I did,” she replied repetitiously.
“And why did you do that? I don’t think even your father liked your rejection.”
“Because I understand that the activities of the Life Identification Society are not proper for a Christian woman such as myself.”
Noll shook his head. “I didn’t expect to see this here,” he said. “Back home, we have all kinds of nutcases running around looking for the end of time. But your church attendance figures relative to the general population are about half of what we have in America.”
“In fairness to Miss Stanley,” Dirksen added, “that figure is higher up here in Hallett than in the rest of the country.”
“Of course,” Noll said. “Well, because of your success—you even defeated the daughter of the President—you have become a symbol of success for Hallett Comprehensive. People form their image of the school and community based on the people they see from it. We must have a reputation as a progressive community if we are to grow in this world. That being the case, such a prominent representative as yourself must think of the image that you set forth.”
“So what are you trying to say?” Carla asked, impatient with the rhetoric.
“What I’m saying is that the Life Identification Society is a cornerstone of our programme for well-adjusted young people who will make a positive difference in this society. We cannot have someone representing this community at the level you do unless he or she is a part of it.”
“Well, what’s your decision about it?” Dirksen asked, about as impatient with the speech as Carla was.
“I’m not joining,” Carla replied flatly. “I’ve told you why.”
“Then your time on the tennis—or any other group in this school—is at an end. You’ll report to P.E. tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Carla said. She rose and left the office without being dismissed.
Noll followed her with his eyes as she left, then turned to Dirksen. “Don’t you think it’s a little extreme to do this? She’s going to be out of here at the end of the semester.”
“You’re obviously not as serious about change as you were in the SDS,” Dirksen said. “A state that elects Ronald Reagan as Governor will see the revolution sidetracked. That’s not going to happen here.”
Without an athletic commitment, Carla simply left school without saying anything to anyone. She had a friend who lived near her who was excused from P.E., so she caught a ride with her home. Alice was shocked when she saw her daughter coming up the driveway so early.
“Why are you home at this hour?” Alice asked.
“I was kicked off of the tennis team,” Carla said.
“What have you done wrong?”
“I wouldn’t join the sensual society,” Carla replied. “Mr. Noll flushed me himself.” Carla walked past her stunned mother, went to the bedroom, locked the door, threw her books down, threw herself on the bed, and began to cry in her pillow.
Alice was deterred by the locked door, but only temporarily; she got the door open and sat down by the bed.
“What’s going on at that school?” Alice asked.
Carla lifted her face off of the pillow and looked at her with tear-filled, bloodshot eyes, a sight that Alice had rarely seen with Carla. She gave her mother a desperate, pained look. “You wanted me to be a good Christian. You wanted me to be a good Verecundan, and to have good school spirit. Today I had to choose. I hate this country, and I hate this school, and you can tell Daddy I said so!” She turned and buried her face in the pillow again.
Alice was stunned into silence. “I never thought it would come to this,” she finally said.

The central consequence of Jack’s grounding was that he was confined to the Point, unable to use his car. School was no problem; depending upon where on the campus he started, he was on average about five hundred metres from school to home. A cold front had blown through the day before and made things chilly, but it was dry again and Jack saw no problems getting home as he left school after class.
After the disaster of the previous weekend, Jack’s thought process was decidedly upbeat. His rear end was getting better in spite of having to sit on it for class after class. His weekend tryst with Denise got him kicked off of the tennis team, but that was more than compensated for by all of the people who came up to him—many furtively, then running away—and congratulating him on bringing Denise down. His only missing piece was how to approach Madeleine. He felt like a schlemiel not having the nerve to approach her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Complicating things was the fact that a good number of girls who were a lot easier than Madeleine were dropping many hints his way.
His happy train of thought was derailed as he turned from Ocean Avenue onto Curtiss Street, where his house was. Afterwards it was hard for him to recount what happened next, but he suddenly found his body the receiving end of three sets of fists, feet and knees that came out from behind the hedges he had walked past so many times. It seemed that he suddenly became a group punching bag, and he never knew where the blows would come from next, they came so fast.
It ended as suddenly as it began. He staggered down the street, determined to make it to his house. His last memory was reaching the property; beyond that, things went blank.
It wasn’t too long after that when Cathy and Terry turned the same corner and walked down the same street. Cathy’s eye was caught by the books scattered all over the side of the street. They picked them up and immediately recognised Jack’s name on them.
“Something’s wrong, Terry,” Cathy said as they got the books they could find out of the road. Terry looked ahead and spotted some marks of blood in the street.
“Look at that,” Terry said.
“What?”
“The blood in the road.” Cathy walked closer; the worry on her face deepened.
“Something’s happened to Jack. We gotta find him.”
“Yeah, but where?”
Cathy had to think. “Let’s follow this trail.” That didn’t prove difficult, because it went straight for the Arnold home. They got through the break in the tall ficus hedge on the front of the lot and were presented with the sight of Jack’s body on the steps leading up to the front door.
The two girls let out a unison scream that penetrated the thick but manicured overgrowth of the neighbourhood. They ran up to Jack.
“I think he’s still living,” Cathy said, noticing his breathing. “We gotta call the cops. We gotta call an ambulance.”
“Wait!” Terry said.
“Why?”
“‘Cause about a month ago, someone beat up like this turned up near Daddy’s office. Turned out, it was the police—or really the CPL—that did it.”
Cathy’s fright turned to anger. “Denise,” she said. “That. . .”
“Let’s get him in the house,” Terry suggested. Cathy got the door open; they picked him up and carried in just inside the door, not sure of where his next destination was. He was still bleeding extensively.
“I’ll call Uncle Jeff,” Cathy said. She went over to the phone while Terry tried to get a washcloth to at least get the blood off. Cathy called over to Terry as she was applying the wet cloth to his face.
“You think we can get him over there?” Cathy asked from the phone.
“I think so,” Terry said. “There are two of us.”
“We can do it,” Cathy said to the receiver. “We’ll be right over. Thanks.” She hung up. “I know where Dad hid his keys—we’ll take the Goat.” Cathy disappeared; shortly Terry heard the engine rumble in the front of the house. She opened the door to see Cathy running up.
“We gotta problem,” Cathy told Terry.
“What’s that?” Terry asked.
“I’ve only got my learner’s permit. If we get caught. . .and it looks like they’re out for us.”
“I’ve got my full Aloxan license,” Terry said. “Daddy got it for me, just in case.”
They got a hold of Jack, Terry at his shoulders and Cathy at his feet. Terry felt like one of her grandfather’s Italian Renaissance art pieces as they hauled him out as gingerly as they could and placed him in the passenger seat of the car. Cathy went back, locked the door, hurried to the car, crawled in the back, and with Terry at the wheel they were off.
Terry found the Pontiac a long way from an Aston-Martin in terms of driving style, but she was a quick study and they got to Dr. Arnold’s office in no time. They had more help in getting him into the office. Jeff dropped everything he was doing and attended to Jack as the girls sat in his office.
They were joined, first by Helen, then Mark. Finally Jeff came in to give them the news.
“I always said you brought one tough kid in the world with Jack, Helen, but he’s outdone himself this time,” Jeff began.
“Will he be all right?” Helen asked anxiously.
“Eventually,” Jeff said. “In the meanwhile, he’s got a broken nose, at least two cracked ribs, probably will need some dental work before it’s over with, a head concussion, and numerous cuts, bruises and other injuries. And, of course, he’s still dealing with what Art Coleman did to him.” Helen began to softly sob.
“Is there anything else?” Mark asked, boggled.
“Well, I don’t want to be indelicate in present company, but had he not put on an athletic supporter this morning, his injuries would have been a lot more, shall I say, permanent.”
“He never tells me when he runs out of underwear,” Helen said, her crying slowing down to say something only a mother or spouse could. “So should we take him to the hospital?”
“Terry here was right not to call an ambulance to begin with,” Jeff said. “This is definitely the work of some very ‘official’ thugs. There have been about half a dozen cases like this since the local elections last November. Like Coleman, they knew what they were doing. Given the way things are going these days, your safest bet is to take him home and get some private duty nurses—or even people who are just good at taking care of people—to see to his basic needs. He’s pretty heavily sedated right at the moment, so he’s going to need some help later on this evening when he gets home.”
“I could help some,” Terry said.
“That could be trouble,” Cathy said. “If he wakes up and sees you first, he’ll think he’s in Manila. He’s heard too much about Manila—ow!” Her attempt at humour was stopped by the long fingers of Terry’s left hand wrapping themselves around the back of her neck and squeezing very hard.
“Shu Yi could help,” Terry offered after bringing her friend to heel. “She’s pretty good at that, and she only works part time these days.”
“Why don’t you call her while we go in and see Jack,” Jeff suggested. “I’ll be lining up some other people later.”

They got Jack home about 1730; Shu Yi arrived about 1900. Terry wanted to stay but her mother insisted that she come home and concentrate on her homework, which was odd since she had very little. The Arnolds quickly discovered that Terry’s advance billing of her grandmother was justified; she got right to work setting things up. Jack was not really with it because of the heavy pain killers and sedatives his uncle had prescribed him.
Things settled down enough for Shu Yi to spend some time with the Arnolds, who were gathered in the room after a quick dinner.
“This is too much like the Communists do,” Shu Yi told them. “It is the same in China, only much bigger. I have niece in Gonganju, it is the same.”
“Gong what?” Cathy asked.
“Public Security Bureau,” Shu Yi clarified. “The police.”
“And I’ve heard that Kendall has modelled his CPL after the Red Guards,” Mark added.
“Of course,” Shu Yi agreed. “Too many bad elements around here.” At that point they heard the doorbell ring.
“I’ll get it,” Cathy said. She ran around the balcony and down the stairs to the front door, the area around which she had helped to clean Jack’s blood off of. She opened the door to come face to face with Madeleine des Cieux.
“Jack is in a serious situation, isn’t he?” Madeleine asked.
“He sure is,” Cathy agreed. “Come on up.” Madeleine followed Cathy up and around to Jack’s room. They came in; Mark and Helen were surprised, but Shu Yi glowed at her entrance.
“You came across the bay, didn’t you?” Helen asked.
“Of course. I had heard that Jack was in trouble, but I only sensed that it was this bad.” She went over to the bed and looked at Jack, who was still barely conscious under the weight of drugs. Shu Yi could see the pain that entered her eyes as she saw Jack’s condition.
“I assume that you have come to do more than just see Jack,” Mark said.
“Yes, I have come to pray for his recovery,” Madeleine replied. “Who did this?”
“We think it was some CPL thugs,” Cathy said, since no one else wanted to blurt it out.
“That’s why we haven’t called the police,” Helen added.
“Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated,” Mark said, not sure what else to say.
Madeleine came round to the other side of the bed, the side facing the sliding glass doors. Shu Yi evacuated her seat and Madeleine assumed it. She was wearing her crucifix, something she wore sporadically before her illness but more consistently since. Putting her purse in front of her on the bed, she reached inside for the tube of aloe vera. Beginning with crossing herself and invoking the Trinity—something that everyone in the room copied—she took the tube, dabbed her index finger with the aloe, made a small cross on Jack’s forehead, and then prayed for his recovery. She replaced the tube in her purse.
“This is very sad, the way he has been beaten,” Madeleine observed, looking at Mark and Helen. “I am glad that, in six months, we will both be gone from this place.”
“I fear for what he’ll come back to when he finishes school,” Mark said.
“If he comes back,” Madeleine replied. “Well, I must be going—I do not want to worry Papa and Maman by staying out so late, with things as they are.”
“Thank you so much for coming,” Helen said, hugging Madeleine as she emerged from her seat and came around the bed to leave the room.
“I’ll take her to her car,” Cathy said. As they walked around the balcony, Cathy stopped and turned to Madeleine.
“There’s something really strange I need to talk to you about,” Cathy said.
“What is it?” Madeleine said.
“It’s about Jack. He’s been wanting for the last few weeks to ask you out, but he’s too big of a chicken to do it. He even talked to Raymond about it when he was up there to play tennis.”
“What Raymond told him was probably unbelievable,” Madeleine said. “But Jack’s not shy like me, why can’t he just ask?”
“I guess he doesn’t know how,” Cathy admitted. “The girls he runs around with are, well, different from you. You know them. Especially Denise, but that hasn’t worked out so hot.”
Madeleine thought for a second. “I made a promise to myself not to date anyone this year,” she began. “Dating is such a serious matter. You are seen with someone, you might as well be married to them. And, of course, I am leaving for Belgium this fall. I don’t want to leave with any commitments. In any case, I don’t think that I can meet Jack’s expectations.”
“Maybe Jack needs to change his expectations. Maybe we all do, after this.”
“I don’t want to hurt Jack, or you. I just want all of this to be over with.” With that she turned and continued her way to the front door.
Cathy followed her until she reached the Dyane parked in the street. “Thanks for coming; it means a lot to us,” she said.
“As Papa would say, it is my pleasure.” With that she lifted the handle, got in, and drove off, Cathy following her leisurely progress until she turned left onto Ocean Avenue.
Cathy went back into the house and Jack’s room.
“She’s a very nice girl,” Helen observed.
“Her prayers work, too,” Shu Yi added.

Father Avalon was prompt for his 1000 appointment with Pierre des Cieux. Claudia was thrilled to see him come; she ushered him in and served them coffee.
“So, what can I do for you today, Father?” Pierre asked, relighting his pipe.
“I appreciate your time,” Avalon replied. “I came to talk about Madeleine.”
“It seems that my daughter has become the topic of conversation everywhere,” Pierre observed. “At least you had the courtesy of coming to my office rather than forcing me—or my daughter—to come to yours or someone else’s.”
“I want to begin by apologising for the way she was treated by the Core Group at our meeting last Tuesday evening,” Avalon said. “That was uncalled for, and I told them that when we met on Thursday. There was nothing wrong with her praying for Steve Brenner. He’s had a hard time at University Consolidated because of his involvement in our group and that was doubtless good for him in many ways.”
Pierre looked at Avalon straight in the eye. “You are the first person to apologise for anything related to Madeleine and the entire affair of her miracles,” he stated flatly. “I think it is fair to say, however, that you have a group of people under you who may find your authority as their priest very dispensable at the proper occasion.”
“Our situation is complicated, I’ll admit,” Avalon replied. “We are an ecumenical group—we have non-Catholic people as well as Catholic ones. Some of each are in the Core Group. We have a social mission as well as a spiritual one, which makes us different from similar groups in, say, the United States. And, of course, you are knowledgeable enough to know that my relationship with Bishop Santini is less than satisfactory.”
“I am sympathetic to your last point,” Pierre said.
“I understand that,” Avalon continued. “After he found out that Madeleine had attended the prayer group meeting, he called me into his office. He asked me if I could use whatever influence I had to get her to recant of her miracles. He said that they were causing the church serious problems.”
Pierre thoughtfully puffed on his pipe. “So what did you tell him?”
“I told him I would not. I told him that, if he felt that the Church’s best interests were served by taking action in this matter, he should do it himself.”
“You sound like you have had a lot of practice at challenging him in that way.”
“Frankly, Mr. des Cieux, I have.”
“I don’t understand Santini. It is not unusual for the Church to take a hard view of such things, but we are not claiming anything other than what happened. We are not asking the Church to approve of what she has done, and I certainly have no intention of turning this office into another Lourdes.”
“I think that Santini’s agenda is complicated,”Avalon said.
“That is a very circumspect way of putting it,” Pierre observed.
“So can we expect Madeleine to return to our prayer meeting?”
“We have discussed this. I have advised her not to, for a long list of reasons. She is in agreement with that.”
“I am sorry you feel that way,” Avalon regretfully replied. “I know, however, that your situation and hers are difficult.”
“Madeleine is the wonder of my life, Father Avalon. But she is a passé simple girl—even the way she speaks—in a composé world. I think what you are setting in front of her is interesting but, in the present situation, is too much for her. But what I would like to know is what you see in this Charismatic Renewal of yours, with our traditional emphasis on the sacraments.”
“After I got out of seminary,” Avalon began. “I was an assistant at my first parish. Sunday after Sunday, Mass after Mass, I would see people coming up to receive the transubstantiated Body of the Lord Jesus Christ himself. Then I would see their lives; some were exemplary, but many were just ‘box checkers’ who were little different from those who never darkened the door of any church. This bothered me. That’s what started me on my search. The Renewal is the best hope for Catholics and others to be really transformed by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
Pierre relit his pipe. “I think your idea is intriguing. In the case of Madeleine, when this whole thing started, I was sceptical, but now I realise that God himself has his hand on Madeleine in a very special way. But I don’t know where it will end for her. I do want to say, however, that I deeply appreciate all that you have done for Claudia and Carol Yedd. You have made a very special difference in their lives and given them support that no one else has. Having seen them struggle for so long, that is very meaningful to me.”
“Thank you very much,” Avalon replied. He arose. They shook hands and Avalon departed.

Sunday morning came and the 0800 Holy Communion came with it. They found an acolyte robe for Jack; both he and Rick, stiff and sore from their beatings, performed their duties as best they could. Fortunately St. Mark’s was not as large as All Saints, so getting around wasn’t as difficult. Jack had drifted away from the church, but in the present circumstance he found the routine comforting, even though he almost started laughing when he remembered Coleman’s remark about the intolerable burden that was repeated in the General Confession.
Attendance was somewhat sparse at this early service, although Jack noted to himself that it was thicker than back home. A quiet service with no music, it ended a lot sooner than the pompous business that took place at 1100, which suited Jack just fine. Jack and Rick got out of their robes and Rick led Jack back into the church to meet Athena.
She had been there during Communion; Jack wasn’t expecting much, but she was definitely up to his own standard. Thin with a long dress, she carried herself with grace, something Jack especially noted when she came up for communion. Jack knew that such deportment was not only a lost art back home, but would get a girl laughed at. Here it wasn’t funny, and Jack felt himself drawn to it, as Rick obviously had with Athena.
“Jack, this is Athena Ballman. Athena, this is Jack Arnold, Bishop Mark Arnold’s grandson,” Rick said rather ceremoniously.
“It’s a pleasure,” Athena replied, curtseying. “I understand that you got into trouble with the Ecclesiastical Constable.”
“We got into trouble,” Jack clarified. “I just got into more trouble than Rick did.”
“It was his idea,” Rick pointed out. Athena showed a look at alternated between anger, amusement and confusion.
“It’s not difficult to get into trouble in this country,” Athena said. “Now you know what it’s like. Just be glad they let you off with the punishment they did.” Jack weighed that remark with the things Rick had said about her grandfather’s and uncles’ execution.
“You’re as pretty as Rick said you were,” Jack noted. Athena smiled.
“He says many nice things,” she noted. “But he tells me that you have a school mate who performs miracles. Is it true?”
Jack hadn’t thought of Madeleine since he entered Serelian waters. He had been too focused on his task—and subsequent disaster—with Denise. Her question jolted him back to the time when they stood out in the hall, both thrown out of class, and he had really talked with her in a serious way for the first time.
“Yes, it is,” Jack confirmed. “She’s in my class.”
“You really think she did all that?” Rick asked.
“You got a better idea?” Jack came back.
“What is she like?” Athena asked. “Isn’t she Roman Catholic?”
“Very,” Jack confirmed. “She’s French. She’s kinda shy, talks very softly, but when she does, it sorta hurts sometimes.”
“Hurts?” Athena queried.
“She says what she thinks,” Jack elaborated. “Oh, yeah, she’s pretty, too.”
“A friend at St. Anne’s tells me she has travelled extensively. I have never been out of Serelia my entire life,” Athena said.
“Her old man sells tyres,” Rick said. “She’s lived all over.”
“She came to the Island—and the school—in Fourth Form,” Jack said.
“I would like to meet her sometime,” Athena said. “I’ve never spent time with a Roman Catholic before. I want to know what it’s like. And I’d like to know what it’s like to perform miracles—our Bishop doesn’t think that miracles happen any more, but my aunt says that we are going to get a new Bishop soon.”
“And if her aunt says it, you can make book on it,” Rick confirmed. At that point Paul Langley came up to the group.
“I think it’s time for you to head back,” Paul said to Jack. “The constable has his eye on the place.”
“I guess so,” Jack said reluctantly. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Athena.
“And you also,” Athena replied.
“I’ll take you to the dock,” Rick said. They left and got into the truck that had gotten them both into so much trouble, then Rick drove Jack to the dock.
“I always thought you said that Maddy was stuck up and a prude,” Rick told his friend.
“I did,” Jack said. “She is.”
“Well, you sure talked her up to Athena.”
“I don’t see you dating a girl that’s much different.”
“There’s nothing else up here. They’re all that way.”
“Maybe you have a better field to play after all,” Jack said. “Take it easy.” They shook hands, then Jack checked the fuel (the constable had thoughtfully filled the tank, which bill Jack had to pay.) After that he started the engine, untied the boat, pushed the throttles forward and headed away from the dock and out into the Crescan Sound.

Jack was glad that it was possible to pilot the boat without having to sit. He had more to deal with on the return voyage than on the way up. To start with, he had to be more careful than usual because of the low tide in the Crescan Sound. More serious, however, was the rain shower that tossed him about right near the mouth of the Sangler River. The storm coming from land, Jack was forced to turn the boat towards the river mouth to prevent capsizing. This didn’t last very long and Jack was able to resume his course, which enabled him to dry both himself and his boat out.
The sun was almost in his face as he entered Verecunda Bay. Steering to port, he came back to the Arnold slip at the yacht club. Even though Jack was fearful about the reception he would get, he was glad to see the familiar sights of home, from the lighthouse on down the Point. It had been a long weekend; he was physically and mentally exhausted. He tied the boat up, secured everything, put the canvas cover back on the boat, took his things and went around the back of the club house to his GTO. Firing it up, he made the short journey down the Point to his home.
He left his things in the car and came through the front door. Sitting in wait for him were his father, mother and even Cat, who had a look of fear on her face, signalling trouble. Next to his father was his scotch and water, which Jack knew only made matters worse.
“Where have you been?” Mark asked as Jack walked towards the centre of the room.
“To our tennis match in Alemara,” he replied. “I won. We won.”
“And?”
“To see Rick Langley in Drago. His father has a very nice church there.”
“And?” he demanded, the anger in his voice rising with every question.
“I went to see Denise.”
“And?”
“I got in trouble with the church cop up there.”
“Because?”
“Denise and I went out drinking. It’s legal up there.”
“You’ve lied long enough!” Mark finally snapped. “You went to bed with Denise, and that’s not legal up there, and that’s not right down here either, young man! I’m going to,” and he started to take off his belt.
“Don’t do that!” Jack pleaded. “The church cop beat my ass raw with a razor strap!”
“Don’t you talk in front of your mother and sister like that!” Mark shouted, coming out of his chair, belt in hand.
“You think I’m lying? Come on up and see for yourself. If I’m not telling the truth, you can beat me with that belt ‘til I die, ‘cause I don’t care any more!” With that Jack took off to his room, with Mark in hot pursuit.
“Please don’t hurt him!” Helen pleaded. Mark ignored her cry as he followed Jack up the stairs to the inside balcony. Helen and Cat held each other for comfort, too scared to do anything else.
Jack entered his room; Mark followed and slammed the door behind him. The girls expected the worst, but in a minute Mark opened the door and emerged from the room visibly shaken, his belt still in his hand.
“What’s the matter,” Helen asked, mystified by the sudden change of mood.
“Call Jeff and get him over here as quick as he can,” Mark replied. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.” As Helen called Mark’s brother, he walked slowly, in a daze, around the balcony and down the stairs. Jack emerged a little bit later; his mother, off the phone, ran up and threw her arms around her son, bursting into tears.
Jeff was the family doctor in every sense of the word. He lived only a block over from Mark, so it wasn’t long before he arrived, bag in hand. He went up to Jack’s room, where he took a look at Coleman’s handiwork for about five or ten minutes. He emerged almost as shaken as Mark had, Jack following him.
“This is one of the worst cases of beating I have ever seen,” he said. “If I thought it would do any good, I would ask our Foreign Ministry to file a protest with the Serelian embassy over this. This is barbaric.”
“So why don’t we?” Mark asked.
“Because Jack had the bad taste to get involved with the President’s daughter,” Jeff explained. “They won’t lift a finger for you.”
“Maybe Paul Langley can help us,” Helen suggested.
“He’s too new to their system.”
“So did he break anything?” Cat asked.
“Art Coleman obviously has had a lot of practice with this,” Jeff observed. “He knew exactly what he was doing. There are no broken bones that I can tell, although an x-ray wouldn’t hurt.”
“So what does it look like?” Cat asked, her curiosity pushing her on.
“He’s black and blue all across his posterior,” Jeff reported. “The edema’s serious. He needs some cold compresses there.”
Cat started to giggle at the idea.
“It’s not funny!” Jack protested.
“Yes, it is,” Cat replied. “I’ll tell Terry tomorrow that your butt’s on ice.”
“You better not!”
“You two stop!” Helen said. “Thank you for coming,” she told Jeff.
“Stay out of trouble, Jack,” Jeff admonished him.
“I’ll try,” Jack replied. Jeff said his goodbyes and left.
The room was silent; Jack obviously preferred to still stand.
“You still haven’t explained to me why you did it,” Mark told Jack. Jack had to think about that for a second.
“I did it for me,” Jack finally explained. “And I did it for you.”
“Don’t blame this on your mother and me,” Mark said defensively.
“Look, ever since I was a kid, you’ve always told me how our family was a ‘founding family’ of Verecunda, how we founded this club, and we built that section, and the senators and mayors and ambassadors we had, and how Grandpa went and helped start the Church of Serelia and then came back to be our Bishop. You taught us we were the greatest. Then some jerk from Jersey. . .”
“Don’t talk about the President of the Republic that way!” Mark snapped. “It’s not your place!”
“It is my place!” Jack came back. “We’re the Arnolds, we’re the best this country has to offer. But now look—you’ve been kicked off the Vestry, your hand-picked Rector was forced to leave the country, and that Kendall slut dumps me without an ‘Dear John’ letter for a guy whose grandfather cleaned toilets at our yacht club! What good does it do to be an Arnold when you have to live with crap like this? And that’s why I came back the next day: I wanted to see Denise go down in flames, and she did, and it’s was the most beautiful girl on the Island that did it to her.”
“Who is that?” Cat asked.
“Theresa Amherst,” Jack said. “If we can’t be what you keep telling me we are, maybe her folks need to come down here and kill these blowfish off!”
There was another time of silence in the Arnold family. Finally Mark said, “I wouldn’t repeat that speech, if I were you. Besides, you seem to run with dangerous company everywhere you go. To make things easier, you’re grounded until further notice.”
“Grounded?” Jack asked.
“Grounded.” Mark confirmed. Jack looked at the floor.
“Guess it doesn’t matter—I don’t have anywhere else to go around here.” With that he turned and walked to the stairway. Ascending the steps, he walked around the balcony to his room, went in and closed the door behind him.
Jack made his way to the balcony. He walked outside, debating to himself whether he wanted another smoke or not. It seemed to be a harder decision than usual; his mind was so filled with the events of the weekend and the crash at the end that he couldn’t even bring himself to make the most basic of decisions. He finally decided to light up; he went back in his room to get a pack when he met Cat bringing in his things from the car.
“I thought I’d bring your stuff in. I pulled the car around too. Dad’s got the keys.”
“Thanks, Cat, you’re the best.” She put the stuff down and stood as he eased over to the night table.
“There’s something I want to say.”
“You, too, huh?”
“I want you know that I’m proud of you. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon—everybody at school knows about it. A lot of people are happy—she got what she deserved, and you did it.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Jack observed.
“You know, Denise has been to bed with a lot of boys—I have too, I guess—but when you took her out back at that bar, that was the first time she went to bed with a man. I’m proud to be your sister.”
Jack was near to tears at that. “That made it all worth it. Too bad that Dad doesn’t get it.”
“He will—I just wish he’d hurry up.”
“But, with Denise, once you’re on her blacklist, that’s it. Most of the girls in our class won’t even look at you.”
“That’s over. They know who’s the best now. And you still keep talking about Madeleine.”
“Yeah, I asked her brother Raymond about that. Sounds pretty tough, if you ask me. I don’t know whether she’ll look at me after I did this in front of God and everybody.”
“But she doesn’t like Denise. Or her old man. They’ve ridden her case pretty bad about the miracles. But you’ll still probably have to do something special to get her to go out with you.”
“You’re probably right, Cat.”
“And I’m still telling Terry your butt’s on ice here!”
“You will not!”
“I’m calling her now!” She turned and raced out his room and around the balcony to hers.
“No, you’re not!” he cried, lamely chasing after her to beat her to the phone.
Mark and Helen looked up in amusement. “Maybe things will get back to normal again,” she mused.

Sleep was a rare commodity at the St. Anne’s guest house. With Jack picking up Denise, then the constable’s visitation to gather evidence, and finally Denise’s return, the time the team was supposed to rest for the match turned into an all-nighter. Coach Dorr was in and out, but Vannie ended up acting as den mother for most of the girls. Denise didn’t get back until about 0430, but, after giving everyone the executive version of her ordeal, she was able to crash.
Vannie wanted to crash too, but she was too keyed up. She rose just before 0600, finding that everybody else but Denise and Dorr were up.
Vannie counted noses. “Where’s Alicia?” she asked.
“Up on the roof,” one of the team members replied.
“What’s she doing up there?” Vannie came back.
“Wanted to be alone, I guess.” Vannie went up the flight of stairs and found the roof hatch and ladder. Sure enough, Alicia was sitting cross-legged at the corner of the building, staring towards the direction of Serelia town.
“What are you doing up here?” Vannie demanded.

“Look over there,” Alicia blankly replied, pointing in the direction she was facing. “There’s Mercury just above the horizon.” She moved her pointing hand upward. “There’s Venus. Up from that are Mars and Jupiter. Star charts say that Neptune is just next to Venus, and Uranus is further up in the sky from that.”
“‘Pinprick holes in a colourless sky/Let insipid figures of light pass by…’” Vannie recalled. She turned to Alicia. “You came up here just to see that?”
“Isn’t it cool?” Alicia asked. “All of these planets in a row. I’m not up this early too often, and it’s really dark up here. I didn’t want to miss it.” She turned to face Vannie. “Don’t you think that this is a sign? It doesn’t happen that often.”
“Yeah, but for who? And when did you get into all of this stargazing?”
“I’ve always liked this,” Alicia answered. “I remember when I first went out on the beach with Brent Murchison, I looked up. Turned out to be more interesting than Brent.”
“I’ll say,” Vannie agreed. She looked out at the planets lined up. “I hope it’s a sign for us, but I’m not so sure this morning.”
“How’s Denise doing?”
“She’s in bad shape. I’m trying to let her sleep as much as possible.”
“I can’t believe that she let Jack lead her on like that.”
“You know Denise—she grabs all the gusto she can.”
“You think all of this is worth it?” Alicia asked.
“Sometimes,” Vannie admitted. “When it’s good, there’s nothing better—drinking, smoking pot, you name it. But you’ve only got two choices. You can do it and take your chances. Or you can be a good girl and have no friends like Maddy. That’s all there is to it.”
“I guess you’re right,” Alicia said.
“You coming down?”
“I guess.” Alicia got up and they went down together.
Denise got up at 0630 to get ready for the 0900 competition with St. Anne’s. The sun was coming up as they drooped their heads over breakfast.
“I feel like crap,” she said over breakfast.
“You’ve pulled all nighters before,” Vannie assured her. “You’ll make it.”
“It’s not just no sleep. It’s the agony of the whole thing.”
“I know. Did they try to torture you down there?”
Denise thought for a second. “Actually, they weren’t too bad. And that sailfish soup was pretty tasty—a lot tastier than this slop. The worst part was waiting—waiting for them to make a move is like watching the grass grow.”
“Why did Jack come up here?”
“His name says it all—he just jacked me around. He’s gonna find out you just don’t do that and get away with it.”
The team finished breakfast. The girls piled silently into the bus in their tennis whites, wishing for toothpicks to hold their eyes open, and they made the short trip down to St. Anne’s main campus.
The courts were already busy with the home team practising and the spectators—parents, students and the curious alike—gathering. Vannie spotted her Aunt Susan, who had brought along Darlene. Both mother and child gave Vannie a good hug, and Darlene hugged the rest of the team while she was at it.
“That’s the best welcome we’ve gotten since we’ve been here,” Denise observed. They went up to the place in front of the stands where St. Anne’s captain and coach had gathered.
Their coach was a middle-aged Australian named Genevieve Isaacs, who was also Coach Dorr’s counterpart as St. Anne’s Athletic Director. The captain was Grace Isaacs, a south Georgian with the thick accent to match.
“Don’t tell me you two are related,” Denise said, tired of all of the relatives she kept running into.
“Somewhere back there,” Genevieve said. “Probably different prison ships.”
“Looks like you caught another one to get here,” Denise came back.
“We understand you’ve had a hard visit,” Grace said sympathetically. Vannie noticed that Grace’s right ankle was heavily taped, even though she was in her tennis whites.
“Do you have your roster?” Dorr asked.
“We do,” Genevieve replied, handing her a copy. Dorr gave hers over as well. Dorr and Denise looked over the paper.
“You’re not on it,” Denise said. “What’s going on?”
“Unfortunately, I twisted my ankle in practice yesterday,” Grace sighed. “You will be playing Theresa Amherst.” She pointed to something behind her. Denise turned around to find Theresa holding hands with Vannie. The familial resemblance was obvious between the two, but beyond that things favoured Theresa. Of average height, she bucked the trend of the times by wearing short, wavy, styled medium blonde hair. In every aspect of her appearance, Denise saw that Theresa was doll-like: figure, legs, poise, her very even but not too dark tone, her skin complexion, even her wide hazel eyes spoke perfection to Denise, something she didn’t see when she looked in the mirror. This created a sense of inferiority in her, the last thing she needed after what she had just been through. Her holding hands with her best friend only added to Denise’s consternation.
She turned back to the two Isaacs. “You have all of the positions filled?”
“We do,” Grace said.
Denise looked passed them at a girl that had walked up behind them. She had very dark skin with straight, jet black, thick hair and black eyes to match, which contrasted with her tennis uniform.
“I didn’t know you have Aloxans coming to this place,” Denise said.
“We don’t,” Grace said matter-of-factly. “This is Dorcas Timothy. Her father is a bishop in the Church of South India.”
“Bishop? I didn’t know they had bishops in India. I never saw a bishop look anything like that. I thought there were only Hindus and gurus in India.”
“The Church of South India is in communion with the local Church of Serelia,” Genevieve added.
“And, of course, we have many Muslims in India,” Dorcas added. Behind Denise’s back, Theresa looked at her cousin in astonishment at this show of ignorance.
“I believe that Dorcas will be playing Miss van Bokhoven in the singles competition,” Genevieve announced. They spent the next minute or so finalising the line-up.
“We will be having our prayer and formal opening shortly,” Grace announced. She shook hands with Denise and the two sets of representatives departed.
Denise pulled Vannie aside. “What were you holding hands with her for?” she asked insistently. “You two got something going?”
“It’s okay up here,” Vannie assured her. “It’s not the same. Serelian women do it all the time. Besides, Theresa doesn’t get much affection at home.”
“She gets a lot of it elsewhere, if the rumours are right.”
“You heard the rumours from me—and one thing you find up here is that love and sex are two entirely different things.”
“That’s for sure,” Denise agreed. At this point the headmistress came up and, using a bullhorn, gave a greeting to the Point Collina team and the spectators. This was the cue for everyone to take their place, which for the two teams were in queues just off court with their captains at the head.
“I hate this part,” Denise whispered behind her. At the end of her speech, the headmistress asked for the teams to come out on the westward court. As Denise and Grace gave each other the cue, the two teams walked out in synchronised single file march on opposite sides of the net. They ended up in two parallel lines facing each other, each line about three metres from the net. The two teams were a study in contrasts. The St. Anne’s team was the last team Point Collina played to wear mid-thigh, pleated skirts and Izod shirts, while the Point Collina team’s skirts were strictly a formality and their uniforms were sleeveless as well. The St. Anne’s team was the only team to have a non-white member on it, their country’s reputation for raw racism notwithstanding. The Point Collina girls looked very tired and bedraggled, in contrast to the fresher look of their Serelian counterparts.
The school’s chaplain, a short, distinguished minister named Clive Bancroft, got up and gave a suitably pompous Anglican invocation, after which the two teams bowed to each other, faced left, and walked off of the court as they walked on.
“I think his father interrogated me last night,” Denise whispered to Vannie.
“I think you’re right about that,” Vannie agreed.
Following Serelian custom, the two top players went first. Denise felt like she had jet lag; one minute she was fine and the next minute she was sinking. As she prepared to walk out on court, the sinking came back as she put on her wrist band. Her head felt like a boat taking on water and the rest of her didn’t feel much better. Vannie noticed that she was weaving a bit as she made her way to centre court.
She took her position on the baseline; she had the first serve. In spite of Denise’s condition, it was Theresa that was lagging on getting out to play. This only made matters worse for Denise, as she noticed Theresa’s air of perfection extended to her gait. Her white tennis shoes tread ever so softly on the court, so much so that she looked as though she could walk on a field of eggs and not break a one. She held her racquet in both hands the whole time she walked on; Denise had almost drug hers on the ground to get it out there. Had Denise looked hard enough, she would have seen the look of sheer terror in Theresa’s eyes, terror born of Denise’s reputation as, until recently at least, the Island’s best Upper Division girl tennis player.
But Denise knew she was in trouble. As Theresa took her place on the baseline, the whole conversation with Vannie about the Amhersts and their descent from the Kings of Beran flooded her mind. It hit her that she was about to play the product of a century and a half of the most powerful, cold-blooded rulers the Island had ever known, all rolled into one Sixth Form girl who in addition had the beauty that Denise found so elusive. Denise saw herself on Avinet’s Beach being nailed to a cross, looking across at Beran-Williamstown school where another scion of a great Island family found unexpected victory just one month ago.
From her first serve Denise and her team-mates could tell the power that characterised her game was virtually gone. Denise’s only hope was her ball placement, and it was here that she ran into Theresa’s great asset: her speed. No matter where she put the ball, Theresa was there to send it back to her. Theresa had always played a decidedly “defensive” game, and in this case it paid off: as long as she could keep the ball in play, Theresa’s main task was to wait until Denise made mistakes. At last Denise made too many mistakes, and suddenly Theresa realised that she had put Denise away in two sets; she blanked the great champion in the last game.
The usually reserved Serelians were on their feet clapping and cheering at the unexpected victory. Theresa was as much in shock as everyone else; she made her way towards her opponent to shake hands. Denise started to storm off of the court, but her coach and team-mates motioned for her to exhibit some sportsmanlike conduct, and she turned and congratulated Theresa before finishing her court exit. She slammed her racquet down and sat down on the bench, burying her face in her hands.
Jack and Rick had slipped in just before the match had started. They too were impressed both by Denise’s poor performance and Theresa’s excellent one, but Jack was fixated on the same things that had made Denise’s envious: Theresa’s appearance.
“She’s a doll,” Jack told Rick as he stared at her on the court. “Who is she?”
“That’s Theresa Amherst,” Rick replied. “You really need to be careful—her old man and his father are the most powerful men in the country, next to the King. You’ll be floating up on the beach if you get crossways with them.”
“I gotta meet her,” Jack said, almost in a dream-state. He wanted to take off after the match, but Rick advised him to wait until the crowd around her thinned out a bit. In the meanwhile the next two matches started, which included Vannie’s attempt to restore the team honour against Dorcas Timothy.
Although she feared that Denise would lose, the actual loss shook Vannie up. As she went out on court, she looked at her opponent, who was taking her position. The result of too many books and shows about gurus and yogis caught up with her. She’s from India, it hit her. These people invented karma. What’s happens if she shoots some bad stuff my way along with the ball? She could see a Shiva across the net, racquet for each pair of hands, shooting as many balls her way at once.
While Vannie struggled with both her inner doubts and her outward tennis game, Jack and Rick made their move. They exited the stands and went around to be as close to the St. Anne’s team as they could get. Theresa really wanted to watch the rest of the competition, but this proved impossible with all of the congratulations she was getting from her countrymen.
The two guys finally made their way to Theresa. Jack found that, the closer he got, the better it got, at least for him. By the time he got up to her he was smitten.
“Congratulations, Theresa,” he said. “I’m Jack Arnold. My grandfather’s Mark Arnold—he helped to start this church up here.”
“I’m Rick Langley—my dad’s going to be Rector at St. Mark’s,” Rick added.
“Thank you,” Theresa replied. Theresa could see that Jack was infatuated with her, but held back her own intrigue with him. “I’m honoured to meet such a great son of the church.”
The great son of the church was about to move in for the kill when he felt a tapping on his shoulder. He turned around and beheld the opposite of what was in front of him: a huge, somewhat dark complexioned man balding at the top, the dark brown hair that remained being greased back. He had a thick moustache which was carefully groomed. He wore a uniform that had started out as navy blue but had faded with too many washings. The insignia on his shoulders looked suspiciously like the one on the side of the truck they came up in. On his shirt was pinned a hard plastic name badge but, instead of being engraved, it had an label stuck on it with the name “COLEMAN” embossed on it. Behind him was a man who was obviously his deputy, in a similar uniform but lower in both rank and certainly in size.
“Are you Jack Arnold?” Coleman asked.
“Yeah,” Jack replied.
“I need to have a word with you.”
“What for? Who are you anyway?”
“Ecclesiastical Constable. You’re coming with me.”
“Why?” Jack asked, both puzzled and rebellious.
“You better do what he says,” Rick warned his friend. “These guys are for real.”
“That’s good advice, Sonny,” Coleman confirmed.
“You’re Rick Langley, aren’t you?” the deputy asked.
“Yeah, I am,”
“You’re coming with us also.” The smile was wiped off of both the boys’ faces. Jack gave a finger wave to Theresa, who responded in kind, then he turned as Coleman gave Jack a little shove in the direction of his car, which was marked in the same way as Coleman was. Rick fell in behind him, the deputy taking up the rear. The St. Anne’s team attention was drawn away from Dorcas’ struggle with Vannie as they watched Coleman cuff Jack amidst his obscene protests and shove him into the back seat of the car. Rick was cuffed also, more meek than his friend, and ended up next to him in the back.
The car was an old Dodge police cruiser which had many miles on it before being exported from the US to acquire a few kilometres on the roads of Serelia. Jack finally realised he was in a tight place in every way; he looked at Rick with uncharacteristic fear. Behind the driver’s seat, Jack’s tight place got tighter as Coleman shoehorned himself behind the wheel, almost shoving Jack’s knees into his pelvis. As Coleman finally cranked the car to start and the springs under his seat cried for mercy, he put it in gear and the three of them took off to the Ecclesiastical Constabulary, the deputy behind them driving the truck that had brought Jack and Rick up from Drago.
It was located a few blocks from the place where Denise had spent the previous evening, in the bowels of the Ecclesiastical Chancery, where the administrative functions of the church, including the schools, medical clinics, and the Archsexton had their offices. Jack and Rick had a rougher ride, though: Coleman never bothered to change the shocks on any car he had, and in any case the Church’s budget for such things was less than their secular counterparts. The occupants were of few words the whole trip.
They arrived; Coleman and his deputy escorted them to their own interrogation room. Uncuffing them, they sat Jack and Rick down with no table in front of them; only the deputy had that luxury, a very small table where he could take notes.
Coleman reviewed the police file that Bancroft had assembled and handed it to his deputy. He turned and faced the two boys, his girth blocking their view of the deputy taking notes.
“Where were you about 2100 last night?” Coleman asked.
“Uh. . .I think that was when I got to the tavern, the Flying Dutchman.”
“Alone?”
“Why does the church care about that?” Jack asked.
“You better answer him,” Rick said. “He’s figured it out.”
“Your friend is wise again,” Coleman said. “Just to educate you on our system here, the Ecclesiastical Constable has jurisdiction over all matters relating to the Church—internal discipline, unlawful religious activity, truancy and other serious matters in school, and of course theft and abuse of church property. Every now and then the King’s officers will deputise us to handle matters that we have some interest in. This is what has happened here. You would probably be sitting in their room rather than mine if you hadn’t exercised the poor judgement of using the sexton’s truck of the Church of St. Mark’s to go ‘bar hopping,’ as you Verecundans like to say, with Miss Denise Kendall. But now the entire matter—including her admission of unlawful conjugal activity—is in my purview.”
“I didn’t do anything! She never said that!” Jack exclaimed.
“I’m afraid she did,” Coleman said. He handed Jack a copy of her confession. The two boys read it in shock.
“She’s lying!” Jack said. “It’s her word against mine. She hates me, that’s why she did this.”
“I have no doubt that Miss Kendall hates you, and for good reason,” Coleman agreed. “But we have several other witnesses that have informed us that you did not leave the Flying Dutchman until after midnight, that you rented and paid for the room she came out of unclothed two hours later, and that you left your seed on the bedsheets for good measure.” He showed Jack the Polaroid photograph of the last piece of evidence.
“She did it with somebody else! I just rented the room because she was drunk and almost passed out.”
“So why didn’t you just take her back to the guest house, like the knight in shining armour you claim to me?” the deputy asked. Jack had no comeback to that last question.
“I want to speak with my ambassador! And why did you guys release her anyway? It takes two.”
“Miss Kendall carries a diplomatic passport,” Coleman reminded Jack. “Your ambassador came round last night to handle that crisis. As a practical matter, although I am no expert on Verecundan politics, I would think that your attempts to get either assistance or sympathy from your government would fall on deaf ears, if you know what I’m talking about.” Jack knew exactly what he was talking about when he said that.
“Now, as I see it, we have two choices. You can be formally arrested and charged with unlawful conjugal relations and your unauthorised use of Church property.” He turned to Rick. “And you can be charged as his accomplice, since you allowed his use of the truck. Both of you can find yourself fighting these charges in a system that does not have habeas corpus and which is subject to royal decree should His Majesty, in consultation with our dear Bishop, decide that he is tired of dealing with barnacles like you two. Or, you can admit your guilt, allow me to administer a little corporal punishment, and be on your way. In your case,” he looked at Jack, “that will be straight to your boat in Drago and out of our country for good.”
Jack thought for a minute. “I was kinda hoping to be Reverend Langley’s acolyte at early Communion tomorrow before heading back. For old times sake.”
Coleman thought about it. “All right, if both of you will take your beating, we’ll do it. The Drago constabulary will be watching you like a hawk and, of course, you’ll be in the church close, so you’ll still be under my jurisdiction. And, of course, by that time the burden of your sins will be intolerable, I can assure you.”
Jack and Rick looked at each other and nodded in assent. “It’s a deal,” Rick said. Coleman’s deputy got up and left the room with the paperwork, and returned with Coleman’s razor strap. Both Jack and Rick’s eyes widened when they beheld this, the favourite instrument of punishment of the Ecclesiastical Constabulary for younger offenders.
“Take your clothes off,” he said. They both stripped down to their underwear. “All of them!” he barked.
“Huh?” Jack breathed.
“It’s the way they do it up here,” Rick explained. “That’s the way Athena’s mom beats her.” They complied with this.
“Mr. Arnold, you’re first. Bend over on the chair,” Coleman said. Jack knelt on the floor and bent over with his elbows on the chair. Both Rick and the deputy stood back as Coleman assumed his position, doubled over the razor strap, drew back, and lashed the strap across Jack’s hind quarters.
Jack had felt his father’s belt from time to time, but the pain he felt from Coleman’s first blow was far more excruciating than he had ever felt before in his life for any reason. He tried to count the strokes, but somewhere in the process he lost consciousness and fell onto the floor. The deputy simply pulled his body out of the way and Coleman proceeded to administer Rick the same punishment, albeit with fewer strokes because his offence was less.
Coleman finished Rick’s beating and admired his handiwork. “Get dressed,” he ordered Rick. “And get his clothes on, too,” he said, pointing at Jack. Both Coleman and the deputy left the room, closed and locked the door behind them. Rick got dressed while trying to hold his composure, but when he got a good look at the damage Coleman had wrought on Jack, he began to cry, a sobbing that became more intense as he horsed Jack’s clothes on him. When Rick finished that task, he dried his eyes the best he could to conceal his sorrow, then he beat on the door.
“We’re ready. Get us out of here!” he shouted. The deputy opened the door and, seeing that Rick was having trouble manhandling Jack, helped him carry Jack to the St. Mark’s truck. They spread out a blanket and put him face down in the bed. He showed a little life but not much.
“The deputy will follow you back to Drago,” Coleman said. “You’re paperwork is clear. Don’t you ever let this kind of thing happen with church property again.”
“No, sir,” Rick promised. Rick got into the truck, which was painful for him to sit in, started it up, and pulled out into the road that led him back home, the deputy following him all the way through Fort Albert and back to the parish close at St. Mark’s.

Vannie managed to slog her way through several deuces to beat Dorcas, but the Point Collina girls’ fortunes waned after that. Bereft of the “virgin traitors” and delayed with a rain shower, the PC team’s lack of depth was matched with St. Anne’s better than expected performance. Dorcas managed to even the score with Vannie when she and Theresa put Vannie and Alicia away in doubles. The competition ended up 5-2 for St. Anne’s, a rout that only crowned the sour mood the Point Collinans started with.
As was the case with Jack and Rick, the girls’ constabulary escort was waiting for them. Vannie wanted to spent some extra time with her aunt and cousins but knew this wasn’t the occasion, so she boarded the bus with the rest of the team and they left with the constable behind them.
The original plan was to eat at the Flying Dutchman, but both Denise and Vannie vetoed the idea, so they headed straight for Denton and the Claudian border. Once they had cleared Claudian formalities—which weren’t quite as interesting as those coming in—they went back to the Perfect Ashlar for the first decent meal that the girls—except ironically for Denise—had had since they crossed the border yesterday. As Denise entered the room, Olivia was so happy to see her she ran across the room, threw her arms around her and hugged her, ending up prostrating herself on the floor. Denise and Vannie helped her up, and she seated them in the same corner they were the previous day.
“Heineken dark again?” Olivia asked.
“Yeah, why not?” Denise said.
“Great idea,” Vannie agreed. Vannie looked at Denise’s bloodshot eyes and blank countenance. “You look awful. But we’re safe now,” she assured Denise.
“I feel worse than I look,” Denise confessed. “I never thought I’d do something that stupid, especially with someone I had dumped for good reason.”
“Maybe there were more fond feelings than you thought,” Vannie suggested.
“You can’t let guys like Jack have their way. You have to break them. I forgot that. I won’t make that mistake again.” She looked at her friend. “You did great against that little spook they put up against you—at least in singles. Maybe a stronger partner would have been better.”
“Dorcas is okay,” Vannie said. “She’s a lot sweeter than the country she’s in.”
“That wouldn’t take much,” Denise said. “Tell me again, who was that who took Jack and Rick away?”
“The church cop,” Vannie answered. “I know you’re sore about Jack, but I’d hate to think what he put those two through. He’s a sadist.”
“Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough,” Denise stated.
They finished their meal and headed down the road. The chipper, upbeat team that had left Point Collina yesterday was the silent, introspective team that rode back today. Even Denise noticed the depressed state of the girls.
“I’ve never seen this team this down,” Denise whispered to Vannie as they headed into Claudia town.
“‘Yesterday’s dreams are tomorrow’s sighs,’” Vannie quoted. Once past Claudia they were able to do more than play the music they liked in their head. The top 40 station in Verecunda came back into reasonable range, and they heard such tunes as the Osmonds’ “One Bad Apple” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read my Mind.” The contact with home cheered them up, although the golden-throated newscaster announced their loss along with the boys’ win in Alemara. Pretty soon the conversation machine was moving along with the bus as they made their way through the Aloxan border and through Beran and Aloxa town.
The sun was setting as the girls made the last border crossing at Point Collina. Behind them they could see the sunset playing its red and pink shades in the clouds.
“I feel like kissing the ground like I’ve never felt before,” Denise said as they made their way down Ocean Avenue. She looked out at both the sunset and the familiar town that passed before them. They reached the school, where their cars, parents, or rides were waiting for them to take them home. In Denise’s case, her mother had taken the presidential limousine to pick her daughter up personally. Laura Kendall embraced Denise tightly and they got in the car, the additional driver from the government complex driving Denise’s car behind them. The others dispersed as the day expired into darkness and they all hoped that the real nightmares had been left on the other end of the Island.

Jack was just coming to when the truck pulled into the parish close. Rick helped him out of the back and into the house.
Coleman had already called and briefed the Langleys on the situation. Their surprise was muted; their years at All Saints in Point Collina had taught them that, when Jack and Rick got together, trouble frequently ensued. They had decided that, even though their distaste for what Jack and Rick did was intense, Coleman was punishment enough for both of them, so they restricted themselves to a long lecture on the proper behaviour of a Christian gentleman. Given the sad state of their derrières, sitting through such a lecture was just about as bad as taking the beating in the first place. When they were not lecturing, they fed them well and talked about old times before they all retired.

Saturday evening Mass came to the Cathedral, and before it the penitents came for Confession. Madeleine, for reasons as mysterious as the last time she went, decided it was time to right her relationship with God once again. So she entered the Cathedral with her parents, dressed in a similar outfit she wore the last time she went except that it was all black. They took their usual positions in the back while she went to the line for the next open confessional.
She entered and knelt down, having prepared herself at home. The priest opened the shutter; she knew it was Father Moore.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned, it has been about six weeks since I last went to confession,” she began. “During that time, I became angry about a dozen times.”
“At whom?” Moore asked.
“At my school, at my teachers, at my headmaster, at our government, and at our bishop.” She expected a reaction to this.
“Go on, my child.”
“Very well, I have been too proud during this time, and I have been too slothful in doing good deeds. Also, I have had impure thoughts once or twice.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“A young man in our school. We have been thrown out of class together. I know he is somewhat cute—there I go again—but he is dangerous, his reputation is not good.” She paused. “That is all I can think of.”
“You have not made a good confession,” Moore declared.
“How is this?” Madeleine asked.
“You missed Mass by your own fault. You went to the Baptist church last month without going to Mass that Sunday.”
“But, Father, I was their guest. I wanted to make a good impression of them as a Catholic. They had never seen this before.”
“It is not your right to decide on the legitimacy of ecumenical gatherings. You must be penitent about this.”
“Very well, Father,” Madeleine replied reluctantly. “I am sorry for this.”
“And then there is the matter of the miracles. You must do penance for lying about these.”
“I would be sinning if I did as you suggested,” Madeleine retorted. “I know what happened. I know what I did.”
“You must tell the truth about this,” Moore insisted.
“I am. You cannot force me to lie. Perhaps I should have started with, ‘Bless you, Father, for you have sinned. . .’”
“Impertinent girl! I should have you excommunicated!” Moore waited for a response to this, but all he got was silence.
“Very well,” he continued. “Have it your way. For your penance, you will say ten Our Fathers, ten Hail Marys, and Domine Sancte twice.” He then pronounced the formula for absolution over Madeleine, and she left the confessional.
Moore closed the shutter, then stopped. His trembling lips pressed tightly together against each other as he tried to compose himself to hear the next confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he very softly said to himself before opening the opposite shutter and resuming his priestly duties.
Madeleine returned to sit next to her mother, lowered the kneeler, and knelt and prayed for a long time. Finally she crossed herself and sat down.
“It was a difficult confession?” Yveline asked her daughter.
“Yes, Maman, it was,” Madeleine confirmed.
Yveleine grasped Madeleine’s hand. “It will be all right,” she assured.
“I hope so,” Madeleine replied.

Somewhere in the middle of all this Denise lost consciousness. The next thing she knew, there was a firm pounding on the door of her room.
“Open up,” the female voice said. “It’s the constabulary.” Denise awoke to find Jack gone and herself unable to escape through the door. She went from total oblivion to absolute panic in an instant, looking around to see if there was an alternate exit.
She went out through the bedroom window, unprotected by a silver spoon or anything else. Somehow she flipped upon exit and landed cat-like on both feet, only to discover a flashlight pointing right at her. Also pointing at her was a 12-gauge shotgun, the favourite weapon of Serelian constables.
“Put your hands up,” said one of the men with the shotgun ordered her. She obliged.
“Come on around, Bertha,” the man with the flashlight yelled towards the window. “We’ve got her out here—but get her clothes first.” Denise was still wide-eyed with fear, not worried as much by her exposure but by the dread that the Serelian constable would empty his shotgun into her if she made a false move.
Bertha came out from the inn with Denise’s clothing. “Put these things on now!” she barked to Denise, who meekly complied. Bertha turned on her flashlight.
“I’ll go in and check for evidence,” the other constable with a flashlight said, which he did.
“You’re coming with us, Miss Kendall” Bertha said, taking Denise by the arm as she had barely finished getting dressed. Bertha was a heavy-set woman who had a strong grip on Denise; even someone as athletic as she was thought twice about resisting it.
She put Denise in the back seat of the constabulary car, cuffing her first. She then got in the passenger seat and the officer with the flashlight got in and started the car.
“You know we’re going to Central,” the driver said.
“I know,” Bertha replied. “I was rather hoping I’d get to do this job myself.”
The drive to “Central,” or the Central Constabulary in Serelia town proper, seemed like an eternity. Since the Serelians hadn’t bothered to build a bridge across their lake it was necessary to take the Old Beran Road all the way to The Conch, make the hard left, and go back into town. All Denise could see out of the back were the backs of the constables’ heads and the darkness that they passed by on the outside. As they drove on Denise began to put her mind back together again, but said nothing to the officers.
The Central Constabulary was located in the main government building in Serelia, right next to the palace gate. It shared space with the newly established Intelligence Service, which was in theory part of the Constabulary but with a different mission. As they turned off of the main road, Bertha pointed at the gate and said, “That’s where they hang people, they do.” At that Denise got an empty pit in her stomach, although she was beginning to believe that she was in a stronger position than she originally thought when she was stuffed into the car.
She was led into the office and interrogation room. Serelian constables were known for their rough treatment of prisoners, but Denise was escorted as if they were ushering her into an office. They removed the cuffs and the three of them sat down at the table, Denise at one end and the two officers on the table sides.
At the end of the table stood Francis Bancroft, Chief Constable for Serelia. A handsome man with a full head of silver hair, he had been the King’s servant almost since there was a King of Serelia. He looked at the meagre paperwork he was presented by the Amherst constables, then looked at Denise with an intensity that frightened her.
“Miss Denise Kendall, is it?”
“Yes, it is,” Denise replied. “My father is President of the Republic of Verecunda.”
“I am very aware of that,” Bancroft replied. “But you are in Serelia now.”
“Before you start in on me,” Denise said, her anger rising in her voice, “you’d better know that I hold a diplomatic passport. You can’t hold or try me for anything.”
Bancroft looked at Bertha. “We didn’t find any passport on her,” she said. “The only way we knew who she was is because the innkeeper and some of the patrons told us.”
“I left it in your so-called ‘guest house’ at St. Anne’s school, if you’d bother to go look.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Kendall, we will certainly do that.”
“We’ve already dispatched a constable to the guest house,” the other Amherst constable said. “We knew she was staying there; her team practised at All Saints’ yesterday afternoon.”
“Yesterday? What’s time is it?” Denise asked.
Bancroft looked at his watch. “0250.” Denise was shaken by that remark.
“She had been there for some time when we arrived. One of the patrons suspected unlawful activity and called us.”
“Unlawful? What’s unlawful?” Denise said.
“It is unlawful in the realm of the King of Serelia for two unmarried people to have conjugal relations,” Bancroft solemnly informed her.
“You’re kidding!” Denise exclaimed.
“No, Miss Kendall, I am very serious about that, as is our dread sovereign.”
Denise thought for a minute. “Get the ambassador over here. I demand to see our ambassador! And how did you know what we were doing? And what are you going to do about Jack Arnold, you double standard people?”
“I believe Mr. Arnold left his calling card on the bedsheets,” Bancroft stiffly informed her.
“That’s correct,” Bertha confirmed.
“So what are you going to do about him?” Denise asked.
“Let’s deal with you first,” Bancroft said. He looked at the male constable. “Go get the night officer to summon the Foreign Minister. He will awaken the Verecundan ambassador.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. He bowed to Bancroft and left the room.
Bancroft turned again to Denise. “While we’re waiting, can we serve you some coffee?”
Denise looked up at Bancroft with a glazed look, more like a frightened animal than the blustering, self-confident woman she showed a minute before. “I’m starved,” she said. “Jack never bothered to feed me before we made love.”
“Our cuisine isn’t the finest, but I’m sure we can come up with something.” He turned to Bertha. “You stay with Miss Kendall, and I’ll see what can be brought.”
His night officer returned in about fifteen minutes—which seemed like an eternity to Denise in her state—with a tray with split pea soup made with smoked sailfish and bread pudding. Denise attacked her meal with gusto.
“This stuff’s pretty good,” she told Bertha and Bancroft after a few bites. “Sure a lot better than the bilge they serve at the ‘guest house.’ Maybe we should have come down here and eaten.”
The Serelians got a chuckle out of that. “I must confess, their food is rather horrible. Our constables refuse to eat there under any circumstance,” Bancroft admitted. “Our Foreign Minister and your ambassador should be in shortly.” He leaned over and whispered something to Bertha and then left the room.
Denise worked her way through her meal. Towards the end, Bertha asked, “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I guess so,” Denise replied. “I’ve already spilled my guts on this ‘crime’ of yours.”
“When did Mr. Arnold arrive at the guest house?”
“I dunno—maybe about nine o’clock, about 2100 as we’re supposed to say now.”
“Why did you go with him?”
Denise was silent for a second. “To drink and have fun. It was pretty boring out there.”
“What kind of vehicle did he take you in?”
“It was some kind of truck, I think it was American. It had some kind of seal or crest on the door. I didn’t see it too good, it had a big red cross in the middle—with skinny arms, not like the kind of Red Cross that hospitals use.”
“Do you know when he left you at the Flying Dutchman.”
“No—I was out by then. Are you the only one allowed to ask questions here?”
“Why do you ask?”
“How long have you been a police matron?”
“Oh, about twenty years.”
“Why did you become one? I mean, this is the kinda place where women are supposed to stay home and not work. Although I saw a pregnant barmaid over in Claudia today—or yesterday.”
Bertha got a chuckle out of that. “I wish it were that simple sometimes. But we can’t afford that kind of life. As for me, my husband was killed in a tavern brawl. Left me with three children. That’s when I joined the constabulary. It gave me as good of a life as I was going to have and raise the kids too. Married the last one off just before this past Epiphany. Miss Kendall, I know you come from a very important family, but may I give you some advice?”
“What kind of advice?”
“I joined the constabulary because of what happened to my husband. I only go there as part of my duties, like this evening. I can see you’re an attractive young woman with a good position in the world and a long life ahead of you. Don’t waste it in the bars and taverns of the world. And don’t waste it letting young men take advantage of you like Mr. Arnold did.”
Denise was silent at that admonition. It seemed like another eternity waiting for the rest of officialdom to arise from bed and arrive. Denise put her head on the table and tried to sleep but could not; she was simply too keyed up. At last Bancroft opened the door and two men filed in the room along with him.
The Serelian Minister of Foreign Affairs was a gaunt elderly gentleman named Eugene Morgan. He was as proper as was possible considering it was almost 0400. Behind him was the Verecundan ambassador, Hank McCasland. An old political crony of Denise’s father and an early member of the Committee for Personal Liberty, he looked the part of a superannuated hippie with balding on top and flowing hair on the shoulders. A “beat generation” refugee with a paunch caused by too many beers, he shuffled in the room, hugging Denise as he entered.
“Well, it looks like you guys have blown international law big time now,” McCasland said.
“We did confirm her diplomatic passport,” Bancroft noted.
“Who was in doubt?” McCasland challenged them. “So I assume I’ve come to take her back to St. Anne’s? She has a tennis match in the morning—although you people should delay that to give her some additional rest. You can’t hold her any longer.”
“Since there’s no doubt that she is a diplomat legally, the only thing we can do is to declare her persona non grata and deport her immediately,” Morgan said. “The Serelian Navy will be happy to take her back to Verecunda at once.”
“When are you talking about doing this?” Denise asked, agitated.
“Oh, now,” Morgan said.
“You can’t do that!” McCasland declared. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
“She certainly has,” Bancroft reminded him.
“According to your stupid laws!” Denise snapped. “We ought to force you people to enter the modern world.”
“Quite frankly, Miss Kendall, your country isn’t in a good position to force much of anything, especially since you abolished your own navy earlier this week,” Morgan calmly said. He turned to McCasland. “We are fully within our rights to deport her immediately, tennis match or not, and you know it. So I suggest you inform your government to be ready to receive her sometime late this afternoon.”
McCasland wanted to blow his stack, but been ambassador long enough to know it wouldn’t do any good. “Surely something can be worked out so that she can play her match and then leave. Our relations are so much better when they include sporting events like this.”
Morgan thought for a minute. “Very well, we propose that Miss Kendall be taken back to the guest house, and that she be allowed to play her match as her team-mates do. After that, they get on the bus, they head to the border, all of their Serelian visas will be cancelled, and the matter will be at an end.”
“But what about Jack?” Denise asked. “Is he going to get off?”
“Does Mr. Arnold have a diplomatic passport also?” Morgan asked McCasland.
“Of course not!” Denise snapped, not waiting for McCasland, who shook his head in agreement.
“Then he should be brought in for questioning—that is, if you will sign a confession of what you did stating that he was your lover.”
“You don’t have to sign anything,” McCasland advised her.
“I’ll sign anything that’ll put his ass in a sling,” Denise said.
“We will prepare such a statement, then,” Morgan stated. Bancroft immediately exited the room to begin that process. Morgan and McCasland also left to make sure the statement got done to everyone’s satisfaction.
It was a swifter process than usual; about fifteen minutes later they returned with the statement. Denise signed it after a glance. She then left with Morgan and McCasland in the Serelian government car, an Opel Senator.
Bancroft assured himself that they were gone, then went directly to the desk of his night officer along with Bertha.
“Do we know where Mr. Arnold is?”
“He’s definitely in Drago,” the officer replied. “He made no attempt to flee the country. He’s staying with Rev. Langley in their temporary quarters.”
“Langley’s there?” Bancroft asked, puzzled.
“No, the Rev. Langley and his wife are in the Bishop’s Palace this evening. Mr. Arnold is with their son Richard.”
Bancroft and the others were silent in thought. “Why didn’t he leave the country? He surely knows what he did was unlawful,” Bertha asked.
“Perhaps he wants to return to see the fruit of his labour,” Bancroft said.
“It’s too soon for that,” the night officer said.
“Not that fruit,” Bertha corrected him.
“Not at all,” Bancroft agreed. “He came here for more than just ‘unlawful conjugal relations.’ He can get those legally at home, if you will excuse my frankness,” he said to Bertha.
“I understand,” Bertha replied. “He came to humiliate her. She speaks of him as a boyfriend in the past.”
“Evidently a few Verecundans still have a sense of honour,” Bancroft mused.
“But we still must deal with him,” Bertha said.
“If we don’t, we’ll have a parade of fornicators coming off of the West Island,” the officer reminded him.
“I’m aware of that,” Bancroft agreed. He thought for a second. “Didn’t Mr. Arnold use a vehicle owned by the Church of Serelia?”
“He did,” Bertha said. “Denise’s description and that of those at the tavern confirm it. You see he’s brought it back to the parish.”
“Perhaps we should let the Ecclesiastical Constable handle this,” the officer suggested. “That would eliminate any jurisdictional problem with the Drago constabulary.”
A wry smile came to Bancroft’s face. “That’s a splendid idea,” he said. “Ring him up and let me speak with him. Mr. Arnold is about to find out that he’s not the only one on this Island with a sense of honour.”

Serelia was the first place on the Island to see the light of day, and it wasn’t too long after that when Jack and Rick set out in the same truck and along the same road that Jack had used last night. Rick drove while Jack got to admire the scenery which he had missed the night before. The best part of that scenery was along the stretch of road between Drago and Fort Albert where the highway ran along the coast; they got to see several kilometres of unoccupied beaches as they travelled along.
“You still haven’t told me when you got back from seeing Denise last night. I was long gone, whenever it was.”
“I went to see her. We went out to drink. Then I screwed her. Got back about, let me see, about one,” Jack reported matter-of-factly.
Rick looked at Jack wide-eyed. “Man, you can get into big trouble up here for going to bed with her. What’d you do that for? You’ve can get plenty of that back home.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Jack responded. “Besides, they won’t look for me. She’s not going to admit it. She’ll just get a ride back to St. Anne’s and play tennis. Drinking’s no crime up here.”
“Then why are you going back to see her?”
“Every time she goes out before a match, she blows it. That’s why she lost to Carla Stanley. I wanna see that.”
“I don’t know. . .” Rick mused.
“So what was your hot date like last night?”
“Not very hot. I went over to her house for the first time to be ‘formally presented’ to her parents.”
“That’s not too hot.”
“Athena’s old man is a geezer, barely sits up in his chair. Her mom is real young—younger than any mothers like her back home.”
“How young?”
“Let me think. . .I think she’s thirty-two, or something.”
“Thirty-two? Is Athena in Lower Division? You are robbing the cradle.”
“Nah, I’m not. She’s seventeen, in Fifth Form.”
“Wait a minute. . .that means her mother was fifteen when she had her. What kind of deal is this?”
“Athena told me her mom was twelve when she married. It was forced on her.”
“What kind of crap is that? They can’t criticise me with that going on.”
“I told you, this is a strange place. You’ve gotta be careful. There’s no telling where you’ll end up.”
“So what’s she look like?”
“She’s got long wavy brown hair, brown eyes. First time I saw her at school, I thought I’d die. She’s beautiful. Perfect bod. Can’t wait to go to the beach.”
“What does she wear?”
“Most of the time, her school uniform. They still have those up here.”
“So that’s why you looked like a dork yesterday.”
“Don’t ride my case. Anyway, she’s got four brothers and sisters. Oh, I forgot, her aunt’s the Queen.”
“The Queen? Now you’re starting to make sense. At least you’re reaching high.”
“Didn’t do you any good.”
“Don’t remind me.”

The Serelians gave the same thorough treatment at the border as the Aloxans did, making the girls get off of the bus while they searched for drugs and other contraband. Vannie was nervous at the whole idea of being in Serelia, made more so by the grey-haired border guard who slowed down scanning the passports to look at hers.
“Marguerite van Bokhoven?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, reverting to good East Island manners out of fright.
“You’re Cornelius’ granddaughter, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“My mother was his secretary. He was a fine man—she took it hard when he died. Give your family my regards,” he said, handing her passport back.
“Thank you,” she said. The process speeded up considerably and they were shortly cleared to reboard the bus and head onward.
They slipped through the town of Denton, which wasn’t much better than Fort Lister or any of the other hamlets that passed for cities in this part of the Island. Vannie gave a running commentary on the founding families of Serelia, leaving out the business about the Amhersts being descendants of the kings of Beran. The countryside went first to wilderness, but it wasn’t long before wilderness gave out to the farms and estate of the Amhersts, which led them into the town that bore the family name.
They made a left turn in town and went to the All Saints Parish and School, which the Point Collinans found to be a pale shadow of its namesake on the Point. A decidedly primitive and rough place, they headed to the tennis courts, which the school had allowed the Point Collinan team to practice on. As they got off, they were greeted by the Rector, Decker Hardwick, and the Headmaster, Quincy Dalrymple. Vannie immediately attempted to pull the girls together for a proper Serelian type of presentation, but it failed; they were too independent for the job. The last one to be introduced was Alicia, who found out she was a distant relative of the Rector.
The best greeting came, however, when Vannie’s Aunt Susan came up. They hugged, and then Susan presented her younger children properly. All of them in their school uniforms, she lined them up in a row in front of Denise and the other girls that stuck around, which was most of them. Susan, like Vannie, had medium blonde hair, which contrasted with the red hair the children had. Denise wondered to herself whether they were hers, or if she was just a pass through for Amherst genes.
“This is Ronald. He is in Third Form. Next year he heads to Alemara Academy.” Ronald bowed and stepped back.
“And this is Edward, in First Form.” Edward did exactly as his brother had done.
“And finally, this is Darlene, who just started school this year.” Darlene had a hibiscus in her hands. She went straight up to Denise, bowed, and extended the flower to Denise.”
“Welcome, Miss President,” she said. Denise took the flower, totally surprised by this show of childlike formality. Vannie took it and stuck it in Denise’s ear.
“Thank you very much,” Denise replied, not really sure what else to say.
“We need to be practising,” Vannie reminded everyone. Susan led the children away and the team got out on the two courts to practice, mostly in doubles.
“That’s some kid, that Darlene,” Denise said, the flower still in her ear.
“That’s a real Amherst,” Vannie replied. “Always heads to who they think is the highest ranking person around. Look how little she is, and already starting in.”
“Yeah, and I hope it doesn’t get back to my father than I’m being addressed as ‘Miss President.’”
“You might as well be,” Vannie observed. Denise gave her friend a look that started out sour but turned into a sly grin. Then the girls arranged themselves on the courts and practiced.
After a while they noticed that a good crowd had gathered around them, both students and parents. The latter especially looked on them with interest.
“Why do I feel like we’re being looked over?” Denise asked Vannie during a short break.
“Because you are. They’re looking for wives for their kids. It’s like jumping into a piranha pond up here; so many people leave they try to trap anybody that comes here.”
“Looks like they’ve got Alicia on the hook,” Denise observed as their team mate talked with both her Hardwick relatives and others on the side. “We may just have an extra seat on the bus coming back.”
They resumed; Vannie ploughed one in to the net. Suddenly Darlene, having changed clothes, ran out onto the court, picked the ball up, and turned to her cousin with a puzzled look.
“Throw it here, sweetheart,” Vannie said. Darlene complied; it was a little short but ended up in Vannie’s hands. Pretty soon Darlene got the hang of it and was retrieving the ball consistently, not always knowing whom to throw it to but making life more amusing. What put the team in stitches was Darlene’s attempts to cover both nets at the same time, which usually ended up in disaster.
“This kid is a scream,” Denise said to Vannie. “A lot smarter than the morons we get out of primary school, too.” About that time Darlene walked over to Denise.
“Show me how to play,” she demanded.
“She doesn’t take no for an answer,” Vannie said. Denise found herself turned into tennis coach, but she complied and Darlene was soon doing some things in spite of the fact that the racquet was almost bigger than she was.
“We need to start practising for tomorrow,” Denise said, trying to end the lesson.
“You’re going to play my sister tomorrow,” Darlene declared. “She’ll win.”
Denise gave Vannie a puzzled look. “You said your cousin’s not first on the ladder.”
“Not as far as I know,” Vannie said. “I’ll probably play her.” She turned to Darlene. “Now go over to your mom,” and with that pointed over to Susan.
“But it’s not over!” Darlene protested.
“Yes, it is!” Denise replied. Darlene sulked over to Susan and they resumed their practice.
The practice eventually ended. They said their thanks to the school authorities, boarded their bus, and made the last, short leg of the journey to St. Anne’s. Once out of Amherst town the Old Beran Road followed the Amherst River, which varied from five to ten metres in width. The countryside acquired a little elevation, and there was a fair amount of small boat traffic in the river. About three kilometres before the road crossed the river on its way to West Serelia and the south, the bus turned left and away from the river on the road to St. Anne’s.
St. Anne’s School was situated on a large plot of land which it did not begin to fill up. In turn it was surrounded by an undeveloped royal estate which extended from Serelia Inlet to the eastern extremities of the Claudian Islands. The large amount of undeveloped land around the school gave it an isolated and monastic reputation, well deserved since the sisters of the Order of St. Anne’s still ruled the institution with an iron hand. The narrow road went straight through a thick pine forest where the trees reached well into the sky, giving an impression both spectacular and claustrophobic. The only thing that marked the passage from the royal estate to the school’s own property was the front gate, which had the school crest on both sides.
Not too far inside the gate was the “guest house,” a two-storey building in a clearing. They pulled up. Dorr went inside and found the house matron, who lived in a small adjacent home with her husband. The girls were shown to their rooms.
The Verecundans found the guest house an underwhelming business, living up to the bad reviews of the team elders who had been there before. With no air conditioning and little maintenance, it had obviously seen better days. After their initial inspection, she went outside to look around.
“I hate this place,” Denise said. “This school has a beach and everything, but they won’t let us go there until after we play. They must think we have cooties.”
“You did have VD,” Vannie reminded her.
“I’m no dyke. What difference does that make?”
“I don’t know.” Vannie sensed that she had hit a sore subject.
“Now they’ll serve us the ‘night before slop.’ Why can’t we go somewhere decent to eat? Last time, we pigged out at the Flying Dutchman after we played.”
“Ask Coach Dorr.” Denise followed Vannie’s suggestion, and went up to her coach, who was not inspired by the place either.
“Why can’t we go eat somewhere else?” Denise asked.
“Your father left specific instructions that we were to accept the hospitality they extended us,” Dorr told Denise. “Doing otherwise would be rude.”
“I was afraid of that,” Denise replied.
“Besides, we don’t want a repeat of what happened before Hallett.” Denise responded in sullen silence, which Dorr took as reluctant agreement.
The meal was served shortly in the small dining room adjacent to the main lobby. Denise picked at her food, and the rest of the team didn’t do much better, realising that Denise’s bad reviews were still factual.
Denise and Vannie had the corner room. As they looked out the window, the day’s light had been replaced by the light of the waxing gibbous moon, which gave them a decent view of the clearing around them.
“We’re stuck here,” Denise sadly noted. “They waited until they put that crap out for us to eat, then took off.”
“I think they went to The Conch,” Vannie noted. “It’s the best pub on this end of the Island.”
“What about the Flying Dutchman? Wasn’t that named after your grandfather?”
“It was,” Vannie confirmed. “I hate to go there. It brings back too many memories.”
“Maybe we’ll fix those someday.”

The Point Collina boys managed to get through the competition by winning 4-3. One of the Academy’s wins were at the expense of a player who had deep sixed his breakfast, after which two of them played post-seasickness doubles. Raymond was the beneficiary of that match, although his performance in singles wasn’t so outstanding. As the match ended, the guys got back on the bus and returned to port.
Jack took his leave from the rest of the team at the government dock. Making sure they were out of sight, he untied his boat and went to the gas dock where, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he refuelled his boat. He paid the dock and took off back into the harbour.
Rounding Driscoll Point, Jack hoisted the Serelian courtesy flag and spent the rest of the afternoon on his favourite boat cruise: the trip through the Crescan Sound from Alemara to Drago. The Crescan Sound had a fair number of rocks in it, but Jack knew the waters well enough to avoid them, and he went onward at full power. The weather held up nicely and he waved at the fishing vessels, coastal ferries, and the occasional Serelian naval vessel he encountered on the way.
With the sun setting behind him, Jack made his way to Drago and its government dock. The Serelian authorities took a reasonable look at his boat before stamping his passport and welcoming him to Serelia. Once through that, Jack met Rick Langley.
“How’s it going, man?” Jack asked.
“Going great,” Rick said.
“Let’s move the boat first,” Jack said. They did so, tying it up away from the customs slip.
“Where’s your old man and lady?” Jack asked.
“They’re up in Serelia with the bishop and his wife,” Rick informed him.
“So you’re free as a bird,” Jack assumed. Rick gave him a funny look.
“Not really,” he said. “I’m courting.”
“Courting what?” Jack asked.
“A girl—what do you think?”
“You mean—as in marriage.”
“That’s the way they do it up here. I don’t know if it’ll happen, but. . .”
“You don’t waste any time.”
“It’s the way things happen around here.”
“What’s her name?”
“Athena Ballman,” Rick replied. “I’m going over to her house tonight.”
Jack thought for a second. “You got some wheels?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I need them.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to go see Denise.”
“She won’t see you—and besides, you’ll get in trouble.”
“Nah, I won’t. I’ll be careful. Where are they?”
“It’s the sexton’s truck. He’s done for the day. It’s kind of old.”
“I don’t care. I gotta have it.”
Rick realised that resistance was futile. “All right,” he said, and they made the short walk over to the parish where the truck was waiting.
“Thanks, and get over there and score,” Jack admonished his friend as he got in. He found the keys, started up the truck, discovered that the sexton had thoughtfully put petrol in it, put it in gear, and, wheeling around, took off out of the parish close and northward to St. Anne’s.

Jack’s navigation skills were put to a greater test on the road than in the water. He had never made the drive on the eastern end of the Old Beran Road. It was getting dark and the road was, in classic East Island style, unlit. The tiny headlights on the truck were totally inadequate to light the way; he spent half his time worrying about overdriving his headlights and the other half actually doing so. Fortunately there wasn’t much traffic, as Serelia had few private vehicles and the Serelians weren’t much to be out after dark except at the pub.
The pub turned out to be his first alert to the most important fork in the road. As the The Conch loomed along the right side, he suddenly realised that somebody had told him to fork left, which he did. This took him through West Serelia and onward to his next turn-off, which he almost missed, to St. Anne’ s itself.
He worried that there would be someone at the gate, but there wasn’t. Picking his way down the dark road, he saw the guest house and decided to pull up and ask for some directions. He saw three of the girls sitting on the front steps continuing the conversation they began when they pulled out of the school over eleven hours and two hundred kilometres ago. This told Jack that he had found the team. But he saw neither Denise nor Vannie, usually inseparable.
Now came the moment of truth. The girls obviously spotted him; there wasn’t anything or anyone else to see. But he didn’t want to get bogged down with them. So he killed the lights on the truck. The moonlight was all that was left to lighten the place. The girls on the steps, thinking that the place might be under attack of some kind, took to their heels and went inside.
Jack was still left with the problem of finding Denise. He knew her well enough to figure that she got a corner room. But which corner? He took a chance and pulled around the right side of the building and stopped next to the back right corner, where he saw a light in the window.
The girls that came off of the steps found Vannie in the hallway. Vannie immediately decided to head next door and see if the adults were back from the pub and available to rescue them. In the meanwhile the hallway was filled with commotion, which Denise could hear in her room. She started to get up and see what was going on when she heard a knocking on the jalousie window.
She went over to see who it was. She recognised Jack.
“It’s just me, Denise,” Jack said to a surprised team captain.
“Get out of here,” Denise scolded him.
“Open the window,” Jack said. Denise cranked the jalousies enough to hear him better.
“I don’t want to see you,” Denise said.
“Pete didn’t bother to come up here,” Jack observed. “You wanna go somewhere?”
“With you? No!”
“There’s nothing else to do around here.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do care. You know it feels good, Denise. For old times sake.”
Denise suddenly came in touch with her feelings in the middle of the nowhere that was northern Serelia.
“Meet me out front, quick,” Denise said. She threw her things together and her shoes on her feet. She made her way out the door, where she met Vannie and her panicked team-mates.
“What’s going on?” Denise asked.
“There’s a truck out there,” Vannie said breathlessly.
“So?” Denise asked.
“You know who it is?” Alicia asked.
“Of course,” Denise replied contemptuously. “Bye!” and with that she walked past the rest of the team to the waiting truck. Jack had not turned back on the lights, and the dome light didn’t work, so they couldn’t see who was in the driver’s seat. Jack turned the lights back on, threw the truck in gear and they sped away down the road.
“Who’s she going with?” one of the girls asked.
“I’m afraid there’s only one person who would pull a stunt like this,” Vannie said very deliberately, regaining her wits.

“Where are we going?” Denise asked Jack as they bounced down the road. “Coach Dorr and them are down at The Conch.”
“So we’ll go to the Flying Dutchman,” Jack replied.
“I can’t believe you came all the way up here to see me,” Denise said.
“It’s the only place I knew you’d say yes,” Jack said. “And I still miss you.” Denise felt a little heart melting at that last remark. “Pete didn’t bother to come up here—and he saw me take off for Drago, too.”
“Did you guys win?”
“Yeah, 4-3. I won my match. So did Pete.”
They turned right onto the main road, and in no time were in Amherst and parking near the Flying Dutchman. The second largest pub in Serelia, it had many little nooks and crannies for privacy, along with a few rooms in the back to make it an inn. Being a Friday night, the pub was full, although the Amhersts themselves had gone down to the Conch to drink with the King. One of the drinkers was the sexton for the parish and school; he recognised Denise from earlier in the day the minute she walked in the door. He announced this to the whole pub, and the convivial Serelians greeted the two warmly. Even the Rector joined in, especially when he found out that she was with Jack Arnold, whose grandfather he knew. The first round of their drinks were on the house.
And they weren’t the last drinks either. Denise lived up to her reputation of being a hard drinker, especially in a place where legalities didn’t matter, but she also lived up to her reputation of not holding her liquor as well as she could consume it. While they were doing that they threw darts and shot pool, but as the evening wore on Denise’s sobriety wore out.
As for Jack, he was laughing and carrying on as he usually did when out drinking, but he was drinking far more slowly than usual. He used every trick in the book to conceal that from Denise, including diverting her attention and pouring his beer into her glass when she wasn’t looking. With Denise’s giddy mood, that became progressively easier as the night wore on.
As the crowd started to thin out, Jack made his move. Having made arrangements with the innkeeper, he took Denise out and around back to the rooms. He escorted Denise back to the room, but left her there because there were still people milling around the inn. It wasn’t too long before they left and Jack returned to the room to find Denise struggling to strip for action. He obliged her by helping her to finish the job and then continued in his way with the action.

The girls had a travel schedule that was both easier and harder than the guys. It was easier in that they didn’t have to leave school until 0900, as opposed to 0700 when the guys pulled out of the marina and 0730 when Jack left the yacht club. It was also easier in that, instead of having “grind-a-pound” Hancock at the wheel, they took the athletic trainer as the driver.
It was harder in that they were forced to traverse the full length of the Island, mostly on the Old Beran Road. Built by the King and Grand Lodge of Beran in the years before the slave revolt, it was a marvel in that it spanned Beran’s realm from Beran town itself to Drago. Now it was considered the longest bowling alley in the world, too narrow for the vehicles now expected to travel it. Coupled with spotty maintenance and the fact that it crossed two international borders, the Old Beran Road was an ordeal to travel, but the fact that the girls got to travel it at all from its western terminus to just past Amherst was a unique experience that few Islanders shared.
To get there though, they had to first travel the same route that the four players travelled to the Beran Invitational. This time, though, there was a critical mass of girls, and their mood was more upbeat and their conversation virtually non-stop as they travelled through Collina and Aloxa. Not even the usual hassle at the Aloxan border dimmed their enthusiasm. They talked about everything: their school work, their clothing, the other aspects of their appearance, and of course their boyfriends, past and present. They even took in the drive around them with enthusiasm, looking at things and people as they passed on the Island’s most scenic drive.
Getting to Beran, they picked up the Old Beran Road. Now came the best part of the journey from a visual standpoint. The road followed the shoreline of Beran Bay, giving them a nice vista of the bay and the beaches, Avinet’s and others, directly in front of them. Many on the bus wished that they had brought their bikinis instead of their tennis outfits, although the thought of the probable spectators brought on the usual torrent of racial slurs that all too often marred Verecundans’ conversation.
They passed through Williamstown. It wasn’t long after that when conventional, West Island terra firma gave way one of several forms of everglades that dominated most of the Island’s land mass. The road’s maintenance fell off as the water table came to the surface; the Aloxan military and customs services were the main users of the road, as there were few people living in the northern part of the country.
They reached the Claudian border after crossing a small bridge. The border guard ambled up to the bus, eyeing all of the girls inside.
“Passports, please,” he said to the trainer, who handed them in a neat stack to the guard. They always put Denise’s diplomatic passport on top, to emphasise the importance of the cargo and to protect them from other types of harassment. Their ruse worked; the guard’s eyes fell on that one first, and he flipped through the rest of them.
On the driver’s side behind Denise was Alicia Decker. Petite with long, straight auburn hair and a plastic hair bow, she eyed the young guard from head to toe. He was dressed in the traditional Claudian militia uniform, which was modelled after the one the Italians used in World War I.
“He’s cute,” she whispered to Denise.
“Yeah, he is,” Denise agreed.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the guard said. “I’ll need to come on the bus and take a look.” Alicia sighed as if her prayers had just been answered. The trainer opened the door and the guard came on, walking back slowly, opening the passports and comparing them with their holders. He could not help but notice that Alicia was staring a hole in him, a look which he returned more furtively, although he did a more thorough passport comparison with her than with the others. “I’ll need to enter your passports in the registry,” he said, turning and taking them back off the bus to his little guard house.
“What were you doing?” Vannie angrily asked Alicia. “Didn’t you see his wedding band? Besides, they just take what they want up here, and don’t ask questions.”
“Just trying to be nice,” Alicia sheepishly replied.
“You should have just given him your phone number,” Denise observed.
“I think I wrote it in my passport,” Alicia observed. The guard came back on and handed each passport back, Alicia’s with a wink. With that he got off, the trainer closed the door, the guard’s fellow raised the gate, and, as the trainer waved at him, they moved onward.
“You live dangerously,” Vannie told Alicia as they pulled away.
“He won’t come to see me,” Alicia protested.
“He might,” the trainer spoke up.
“How come?” Denise asked, curious.
“That guy who raised the gate is Claudia Yedd’s cousin,” the trainer observed.
“Who’s Claudia Yedd?” Alicia asked.
“That’s the woman who’s kid Maddy healed,” Vannie replied. Denise rolled her eyes in disgust at the thought.
“They’ve all got relatives in town. You just might have a visitor—especially if he doesn’t bring his wife,” the trainer observed.
“This Island’s too small for its own good,” Denise sourly observed.
From there they went on to what Vannie called the “Mordor” part of the trip, because it was dominated by two stone forts. The first one came right right after the border at Fort Cox, with the large, Beran era castle on the left and the town on the right. Were it not for the stone edifice rising out of the swamp, Fort Cox would have been one of those places where, if you had blinked, you would have missed it. The road then paralleled the coast very closely as it went through the wooded strip that separated the mangrove lined coast from the inland everglades. Sometimes the coast itself would break through and the girls would get a glimpse of what Islanders called the “North Ocean,” although people who actually lived along oceans at the higher latitudes would have laughed at the idea.
They then came to the second stone fort in the series, this time the royal palace at Claudia town, with its imposing gates open and surrounded by the nondescript town itself. The open gates gave the bus a chance to get some petrol at the palace motor pool, a nice arrangement of Verecunda’s Foreign Ministry. Other than the fuel stop, going past both of these edifices and what surrounded them gave the girls the impression they were going back in time. What they were looking at was a country whose advance had stopped nearly a half century earlier. While their absolute monarchs longed for the day when they could lead the return of Beran, its people quietly slipped away in emigration to places such as Verecunda where some semblance of prosperity could be found.
East of Claudia, the weather continued to be beautiful, and they entered a slightly busier stretch of the road, surrounded as it was by some royal estates. When they saw more uninspiring houses line the road, they realised that they had reached Fort Lister, and although it lacked a stone fort it had one asset the girls were more than ready for: the Perfect Ashlar Tavern, with some of the best food in this part of the Island.
They pulled up to the tavern, which wasn’t busy since it was too early for the evening drinkers and a bit too late for the lunch eaters. As they came to a stop, Coach Dorr got up to make an announcement.
“All right, girls, we’re here. Don’t forget, you’re still in training, so I don’t want to see any of you breaking that.”
Denise gave Vannie a look, then they got up and waited for everyone else to get off of the bus before they did. They fell back behind the group.
“That’s what she thinks,” Denise whispered to her friend. “There’s no drinking age up here, is there?”
“Not here, not in Serelia either,” Vannie confirmed.
“Then let’s find a place away from everybody else,” Denise replied. As they all went in, Dorr and the rest of the team found one part of the tavern to sit in while Vannie motioned to Denise to head to another corner of the place.
“You two don’t want to sit with us?” Dorr asked them across the room.
“We’ve got stuff to talk about,” Denise answered, and they went on.
The two sat down. “What do they have on tap here?” Denise asked.
“Forget about the tap,” Vannie replied. “I’m ordering Heineken. Dark.”
“Is that stuff really better?” Denise asked.
“Of course it is,” Vannie replied. “It’s better than anything the Americans put out. Their idea of a special brewing process is to run it through a horse. I think Terry’s dad distributes Heineken on the Island.”
“Don’t remind me,” Denise said.
“That doesn’t matter. I’m not Dutch for nothing. Try it.” About that time the waitress came up. Attractive with long light brown hair, she was obviously younger than Denise or Vannie, but pregnant in a maternity dress.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked, bowing to them.
“Heineken Dark,” Vannie spoke up immediately.
“Make that two,” Denise said.
“Thank you,” the waitress replied, and walked away.
“What’s good to eat here?” Denise asked. “It’s been so long since we were here last, I’ve forgotten.”
“They have killer conch chowder,” Vannie said. “I think they serve it with some kind of beans and rice.”
“Conch chowder seems to work around here,” Denise observed. The waitress brought back their beers.
“Would you like to order something to eat?” the waitress asked.
“How about the chowder special? You still serve that?” Vannie asked.
“We do,” the waitress confirmed.
“Let’s just have two of them,” Denise said.
“Yes, m’am,” the waitress said, bowing again.
“Just a minute,” Denise said.
“Is there something else?” the waitress asked, puzzled.
“How old are you?”
The waitress was in shock at Denise’s interest. “I’m sixteen.”
“You’re married, aren’t you?” Vannie asked rhetorically, since she saw her wedding ring.
“Yes, I am. Married last June.”
“When’s the baby due?” Denise asked.
“April.”
“You still in school?” Vannie asked, mostly for Denise’s benefit.
“Oh, no,” the waitress replied. “My father’s dead. School ends here in Fourth Form. Girls are not permitted to attend Royal Arch school in Claudia past Forth Form, and it is not lawful to go to school in Serelia, either. Besides, Albert—my husband—wanted to get married, and my mother was having a hard time keeping me up. And I must work because, as you see, my baby’s on the way. It’s a very good position here—I don’t have to work out of doors, which is very nice in the summer.”
“What’s your name?” Denise asked.
“Peterson,” she replied. “Olivia Peterson. My husband’s Albert Pike Peterson—his family is very prominent in the Lodge here. I’m in Eastern Star. But I think your companions are looking for me.”
“Thanks,” Denise said, and Olivia hurried away.
Vannie saw a look of speechless shock she had never seen on Denise before.
“That’s why my father pushed the birth control and abortion bills first,” Denise finally said. “We can’t let this cause fail, Vannie. We just can’t. You see what happens.” They finally filled their glasses with beer.
“You’re right, Vannie, this stuff is great,” Denise declared after taking a sip. “You know, it just hit me: maybe we should have brought Terry to this end of the Island. She could marry someone over here, quit school, have a half dozen kids, and that would be the end of her.”
“You know her mother wants something different,” Vannie disagreed. “Besides, remember Madeleine’s prophecy?”
“You really believe that? With schmucks like her, it’s a lot easier dumping them off in a place like this than to fix them. And it would get a Gerland out of our hair.”
Vannie sipped her beer in silence. Denise could tell she didn’t agree but Vannie didn’t have a good comeback.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Denise said. “I can’t keep up with it—tell me about your relatives over here.”
Vannie was partially relieved at Denise’s new agenda. “My grandfather was Cornelius van Bokhoven. He was Serelia’s first Chancellor, or Prime Minister. Without him King Albert would have never gotten the country off of the ground. He had two children; my father and Aunt Susan.”
“Isn’t she married to one of the big families over here?”
“The Amhersts—except for the royal family, the biggest in Serelia. Her husband is Uncle Thomas; his father Elton is still very much in charge.”
“Isn’t one of your cousins on the St. Anne’s tennis team?”
“Theresa, the oldest,” Vannie replied. “I don’t think she’s first on the ladder but she’s second or third. She’s a very nice girl. Her brothers are typical Amhersts, and they broke the mould with her kid sister Darlene.”
“Broke the mould?”
“You’ll have to meet her to figure that out.”
“So, if your family was so big in Serelia, why did your old man leave?”
Vannie looked around very carefully and then turned to Denise. “My grandfather was murdered.”
“Murdered? Who did it?”
“Elton Amherst. He had it done. Found his body floating on the beach in Serelia.”
“Why?” Denise was very worldly and hard to shock, but the East Islanders managed to do it again.
“It’s complicated,” Vannie explained. “Back in the late forties, the Cavitt family was as powerful as the Amhersts. So Elton lured them into starting a secret Masonic lodge, which is very illegal in Serelia. Then he turned them into the King. Albert had old man Cavitt and his sons arrested and hung from the palace gate. He married one of the daughters to one of his drinking buddies at the tender age of twelve.”
“Twelve! You can get sent to the slammer for that, even in Verecunda.”
“He married the other daughter off to his son, and now she’s Queen Annette. She was only sixteen.”
“That wasn’t too bad—I guess, for the East Island,” Denise replied, thinking about their waitress.
“It is bad. Annette is a virtual prisoner of the royal family. Just like Aunt Susan is a prisoner of the Amhersts.”
“This isn’t making a lot of sense. With your Aunt Susan, that is.”
“My grandfather knew of what Elton Amherst had done. So he planned to expose him to the King, both directly and through the Verecundan papers. Elton suspected what he was going to do, so he had him killed.”
“Was your Aunt Susan married to these people when this happened?”
“Of course. But she can’t say anything; she just suffers in silence, just like she does when Thomas plays around. I’ve even heard that he’s got a kid in Alemara by a woman he raped after she quit being his mistress and married. But back to the story—my father knew what was going on, so she took my mother and grandmother and left. That’s why we came to Verecunda. And he also came with one other bombshell.”
“What was that?”
“The truth that Elton Amherst is the son of both Theodore Amherst and Princess Ophelia of Beran. The Amhersts are in fact the ‘sons of Beran’, as they like to say over here.”
“Vannie, you worry me sometimes,” Denise said. “Everybody knows that Elton was born to a mistress. And even if Ophelia was his mom, why would Elton hide it?
“Because Elton knew that, if the truth came out, they’d do to the Amhersts what they did to the Cavitts. That’s especially true after Theresa was born; they’d just kill the men, herd her to the altar, take the property and wealth, and the Amherests would vanish into history. Denise, they’re just biding their time. And they have to be the descendants of the Kings of Beran. Look at them—Avinet’s Beach, the enslavement of black people long after everyone else had given up on it, even after the Americans had ended it with their civil war. And don’t forget the wars they fought with Verecunda. These people are born killers. They make Lucian Gerland look like an amateur. That’s why you can’t let Terry get over here: if she ever hooks with with these people, you and your parents will hang from the yardarm at the yacht club.”
Denise look at her friend with a glazed look. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you.”
“You should be, too,” Vannie emphasised. Olivia brought their meals about that time.
Denise’s and Vannie’s conversation drifted off into more light hearted subjects, but towards the end of their meal Denise returned to the Amhersts.
“I’m surprised you didn’t say that the Amhersts had run up a lot of bad karma,” Denise said.
“They have,” Vannie agreed. “I guess we need to hope it gets them before they get us.”
“You two ever going to be ready to move out?” Coach Dorr shouted to them across the room. The rest of the team was working its was towards the door.
“We’ll be there!” Denise shot back. Olivia had laid the bill on their table, which was nothing more than a small, tissue thin piece of paper. Denise laid down a Verecundan fifty dollar bill on the table.
“Denise, that’s twice as much as the bill,” Vannie noted.
“She going to need it, with a baby on the way,” Denise said. “Keep the bad karma away from us, too.” Denise walked towards the door, following her team as Vannie followed her. They boarded the bus, assuming the same seating as before.
“Was that barmaid pregnant?” Alicia asked.
“What do you think?” Denise challenged her.
“That’s what happens when you fool around with East Island boyfriends, like that guard you jacked your skirt up for,” Vannie added.
“Oh, dear,” Alicia sighed.

The sun was just barely peeking over the Point when Jack arrived at the yacht club. He parked his black GTO in the far corner of the lot to insure that others would not open their doors on it, took his bags out of the boot, and checked to make sure it was locked and everything was secure. He walked across the parking lot, stopped at the club house briefly, and then went out on the dock to the boat.
The Arnold family had had larger yachts in the past, but now they contented themselves with the small boat. Jack had spent a lot of time there lately, getting the craft ready for the voyage, which was unusual since they didn’t do much boating when school was in. What Jack’s parents did not know was that he had not smoked a joint or taken any other kinds of drugs in over two weeks, had drunk very little, and had seen a rise in his grades. His change of life was obscured by the fact that he had not cut his hair or shortened his sideburns, which still went well below the ear, nor had he shaken off the studied disinterest which he showed to his family. Only Cat sensed that something was going on. She only shared her feelings with Terry, who knew how to keep a secret, especially if she remotely suspected it had anything to do with Denise.
Across the bay the team was boarding the chartered yacht which would take them to play Alemara Academy, the Island’s prestigious all-boys school. But Jack had managed to get permission to go on his own. His pretext that he wanted to see his old schoolmate Rick Langley, who was now living in Drago, as Rick’s father took his self-imposed exile at St. Mark’s parish.
Jack removed and carefully stowed the canvas cover on the boat along with his things, made one final check of his marine radio and other gear, fired up the gasoline engines under the stern, untied the lines that held the boat to the dock, backed out of the slip, and roared out into the Verecunda Bay on his way to Alemara.
The southern coast of the Island could be run two ways: “inside,” namely between the barrier islands and the Island itself, and “outside,” beyond the barrier islands. Jack preferred to run it inside because outside the waves were generally higher. With the prevailing winds from the south-east and the swell from the same direction, going outside frequently meant taking it on the beam, which caused the boat to roll and made for an unpleasant ride, especially in smaller craft such as his. In Verecundan territory his course wasn’t too difficult; once he cleared the Point, the main object was to travel up the Elaron Sound about halfway between the Uranan coast and the barrier islands (with their reefs.)
The bottom had few features, which didn’t make for much visual appeal but made navigation easier. Jack ploughed through the Sound at full speed ahead. The wind blew his ample hair back and the sunrise made a nice vista to his starboard. It was just Jack and the sea, and with the temperature back in the 22-23ºC range he was not only glad to be going where he was, but was having a good time getting there and enjoying the view through his polarised sunglasses.
It wasn’t until he got into Vidameran territory that things got a little complicated. The Sangler River left at its mouth some sand spits with their accompanying sand bars, especially the horseshoe bar that dominated the bottom of the river mouth. Fortunately Jack knew these waters well, and in any case didn’t have much draught to worry about under him as he roared on over the shallow waters below. He knew just how much to leave the cays out of the river on his port without getting tangled up in the patchy coral, and in no time he ended up on the inside of Cambell’s Cut, again midway between the Vidameran coast and the offshore islands. This manoeuvre made him think of the times when he threatened to quit school and move up to this area as a native guide. Perhaps, he thought, if things didn’t work out with university in the States, he could move up where Rick lived and do the same thing at the other end of the Sound. Soon he got a glimpse of the Driscoll Point lighthouse, which signalled him to begin to turn to port and head into Alemara.
He arrived at the Alemaran government dock with his charts still rolled up and stowed away. The weather was still good, the low floating clouds making their procession from the ocean and over Alemara. He took care of immigration formalities and then moved the marina nearby. Tying the boat up and securing everything, he went up to the dockmaster to pay his fees.
“You heard about the rest of my tennis team?” he asked the dockmaster.
“You didn’t see them coming up?”
“No. They must have run outside.”
“You’re right about that. I think I heard on the radio that they just passed Morgan’s Cay and should be here in a bit. You could meet them over at the government dock.”
“Good idea. Thanks.” Jack took his tennis bag with racquet and headed back over on foot to the government dock. As promised, the chartered boat arrived and the rest of the team, with Coach Hancock, came ashore and had their passports stamped.
Jack was waiting for them on the other side. “So pretty boy took his own boat,” Pete said sarcastically after he came through the gate.
“Thought I’d make the most of the trip,” Jack said.
“I’m sure you will. Hope she’s hot and horny—but you’ve got to be careful on the East Island.”
“I know,” Jack replied.
“You should have come with us,” Pete said in a low voice. He motioned with his head at two of the younger players on the team. “They barfed over the side on the way up. We laughed our asses off. It was so funny. . .”
“That’s okay,” Jack replied. “I had a great trip.” They gathered themselves and their stuff together and boarded the decrepit Alemara Academy bus and headed eastward towards their match.
Alemara Academy was a little less than halfway between Alemara town and Driscoll, which meant that it was out by itself. Although it was only about three hundred metres from the sound, it was beyond the best of the long, broad beach that made the town famous. They pulled up through the school’s front entrance.
“That school in Aloxa has a lot better set-up than this dump,” Jack remarked, recalling Beran-Williamstown’s better physical plant.
Pete looked at his watch. “The girls should be around there somewhere about now. I wouldn’t take their trip for anything, even with these landlubbers we’re stuck with.”
The tennis courts were on par with everything else at the school. The fences, windbreakers, bleachers and asphalt courts themselves had seen better days. Their team was there and practising. Point Collina’s team had to take the entire day off from school for this match, and although the Academy team was home this year, the 1100 start time dug into their own academic schedule. The home team cleared the courts long enough for the visitors to practice while the coaches and captains met to figure things out.
The two teams came out, shook hands, and the matches began. The Academy was competitive in a few slots but Point Collina’s team depth worked against them. One of the Academy’s less proficient players was Raymond des Cieux, who unlike Carla had not taken lessons from his sister. Raymond was at the bottom of the singles ladder and Jack was at third, so while others were playing Jack came over and motioned to Raymond to pull away from the bench and talk with him.
“You still glad you’re not on the Point this year?” Jack asked Raymond.
“It’s all right up here,” Raymond replied. “But it’s better than the Point.”
“I gotta kinda hard question for you?”
“Hard question? For me?”
“Yeah.” Jack hesitated. “How is the best way to ask your sister out?”
“You could try telephoning her,” Raymond calmly answered him.
“Nobody likes a. . .I know that. What I mean is, how do I do it so she won’t say no?”
“You’ve had a lot of girl friends. One of them must have said no. I haven’t had too many, but some of them have said no to me. So what’s the big deal for you?”
“Well, man, from what I hear, when she says no, it hurts. Besides. . .I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve never asked a girl quite like her out before.”
“She is unique,” Raymond agreed.
“So, what does she like? And don’t like?”
“She likes fine food, like we eat at home. So you should consider a nice place, like the Resort, where she can order something reasonably good and perhaps have a little wine without too many questions.”
“Does she drink a lot?”
“Not much. And only with meals. It is the way we were brought up. She is not the kind to go out and get drunk like the last girlfriend you had.”
“You would bring that up.”
“You might also try going to Mass with her—she likes that in a boyfriend.”
“That’s going to be hard.”
“Why?”
“Because my old man hates the Catholic Church. It’s cool with me. My sister Cat’s already in trouble for going there with her friend Terry Marlowe.”
“C’est tres triste. . .you are passing some very sweet women by when you miss Mass. Take your sister’s friend—now that’s a girl I’m afraid to ask out.”
“How come?”
“Because she comes from such a great family, and she is so tall and beautiful—Papa says she reminds him of the women he used to see in Indochina.”
“Vietnam?”
“Yes, my family lived there when Madeleine was born.”
“She was born in Vietnam?”
“She was. We’ve lived in many places.”
“Cool. So you’re chicken, too.”
Raymond looked at the ground. “I guess so.”
“Just give me her phone number,” Jack finally said. Raymond went and borrowed a pencil, wrote it on a piece of scrap paper, and handed it to Jack. “Thanks,” Jack said.
He went back to his bench. As Raymond returned to his own, his coach, who doubled as a history teacher, came up to him.
“What was that all about? You know him?”
“He is in the same form as my sister at Point Collina,” Raymond replied.
“That’s right, your sister does go to Point Collina. So what does he want to do, ask her out?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“From what you’ve told me about your sister,” the coach observed, “only a Siegfried will take her out—a guy who isn’t afraid of death and will go through the fire.”
“I think he is about to discover this,” Raymond agreed.

It was back at the “head table” in the cafeteria for Denise and her friends.
“How did it go with Terry yesterday?” Pete asked.
“You saw her blow her stack and storm out of school, didn’t you?” Vannie asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” Pete vaguely replied.
“You think she’s going to do anything about it, Denise?” Vannie asked.
“I think her old man’s already called the school, but I think he ‘winged the wong number’ this time!” Denise exclaimed as the group burst out laughing.
“You think Bartow will cave?” Pete asked.
“Never!” Vannie exclaimed.
Denise was more thoughtful. “He might. . .you know Gerland’s still sitting on the trust fund that keeps this dump going. And a lot of that money’s off the Island.”
“How’s he doing these days?” Pete asked.
“Not good,” Denise replied. “He hasn’t been seen in public since Yule, when he went to church. I think he may be ready to kick the bucket on us. Not a moment too soon, either.”
“So how’s your old man going to get his money?” Pete asked.
“He’s got a plan, but he won’t tell me,” Denise said.
“So we’ve got to figure out a way to make keeping Terry home this weekend stick,” Vannie said. “If we don’t, you’ll be in deep with her old lady.”
“Wait a minute. . .that’s it!” Denise exclaimed.
“That’s what?” Vannie asked.
“I’ll get the Foreign Ministry to put her passport ‘under review.’ Just long enough to keep her stuck this weekend. She won’t be able to get out of the country then—especially with the route we’re taking.”
“That get’s it out of Bartow’s hands, too,” Pete observed.
“Exactly,” Denise agreed.
“You learned from the best,” Pete told Denise.
“I did learn from the best,” Denise agreed. “But it’s going to get better.”
“Too bad you can’t put the hurts on Frenchie,” Pete said.
“Dad won’t budge on that,” Denise said. “He won’t admit it, but I think the French government put us in a full nelson over the way our stupid Ministry of the Environment threatened to shut her old man’s company down. He won’t even consider pulling their contracts for tyres—he doesn’t want to give the business to the Americans in any case. He did get her visa changed so she’ll have to hit the road after graduation.”
“As if she wasn’t going to already,” Pete added.
“Maybe there’s something else,” Vannie suggested.
“Like what?” Denise demanded.
“Maybe Maddy’s the avatar,” Vannie said.
“The what?” Pete asked.
“The avatar. The incarnation of God. Like Meher Baba. You know, his eye looks at you from the cover of Tommy. You know what that’s about.”
“You have flipped, Vannie. You’ve been to too many seances.”
“But she did heal that blind girl. Every time I think about that, the album comes back to me.”
Pete started to groove to the rhythm in his head. He began to softly sing to it: “Listening to you,/I get the music./Gazing at you,/I get the heat. . .” His reverie stopped when he caught Denise’s angry glare burning a hole in him.
“It’s still stupid,” Denise disagreed. “Avatars are from India. She’s French. And she’s Catholic too.”
“But don’t you think it’s time for a woman to be the avatar?” Vannie asked.
Denise looked out at the crowd eating lunch, then back at Vannie. “It’s not going to be her. And not here either.”

Claudia Yedd’s “water cooler talk” had been about this new prayer group that she was attending up in the University district. Pierre’s reaction was decidedly unenthusiastic, but Madeleine was curious, especially when she discovered that it was lead by the Catholic priest/political activist James Avalon.
So that evening Madeleine tucked her car in the warehouse and took the bus with Claudia up to the transfer point at Central Avenue and Ardmore Street, which made the north west corner of the University of Verecunda. It was there they met Carol, who gave Madeleine a big hug when they met. The only drawback to Carol going to regular school was that she just couldn’t go straight to Claudia’s workplace from her school. Fortunately Claudia had a neighbour with a daughter a year younger than Carol, so she had a place to stay until her mother got off work.
Madeleine bought the three of them a quick dinner at a small café near the corner, then they took their transfer tickets and headed over to the St. Leonard of Port Maurice Parish and Student Centre. The church itself faced Ardmore and, across the street, the University. Madeleine could see the signs of CPL vandalism around the church, especially the torn shrubbery, mauled grass and signs of graffiti not entirely effaced from the front and sides of the building. Strangely the building that doubled as the parish hall and student centre was behind the church and away from the University whose Catholic students it supposedly served. But it was neither a parish function nor a meeting of the Newman Association where the three women were going; they went down the side walk along the left side of the church which led them to the gathering of the Servants of the Lord Prayer Group.
Although they were a tad early, they were met by the front doorkeeper, a squirelly looking man in his mid-thirties.
“Good evening, Claudia,” he said. “And Carol. And who is your guest this evening?”
“This is Madeleine des Cieux,” Claudia proudly announced. “This is the girl who prayed for Carol to receive her sight.”
The doorkeeper’s eyes turned as big a saucers as he beheld Verecunda’s most notorious miracle worker. “I am so glad to meet you at last,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. “I was hoping you would come. Please come in and have a seat. We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
They went in and took a seat towards the back. But Claudia was busy flagging down people she knew to meet Madeleine. The reactions were mixed; some were impressed like the door keeper, some were indifferent. Claudia was miffed by the latter but Madeleine was unconcerned. She was happier to sit and watch the proceedings then to have to attend to a receiving line.
It wasn’t too long that the musicians took their place and the prayer meeting began with their music. By that time the room was full to almost overflowing. Even though the room was long and relatively narrow, the chairs were arranged in a circular arrangement with two aisles to the centre. The musicians occupied about half of the innermost row of chairs, with their music stands and one guitar amp. Most of their guitars, however, were acoustic, with one bass and a couple of woodwinds. All of the musicians were young people, ranging in age from Lower Division to University students. They only had a couple of microphones, but the room was small enough—and there were enough of them—to compensate for that. The songs they sang—with one or two exceptions—were as unfamiliar to Madeleine as those at Carla’s church.
On the other side of the innermost row from the musicians were a group of middle aged men. Claudia explained that this was the core group, which directed the course of the prayer meeting. Next to them was Father Avalon, in his clerical collar. They had come in just before the music started.
The style of worship was also a novelty to Madeleine. At all times people raised their hands. Between the songs there was spontaneous, concert prayer and praise, frequently in song. Madeleine detected an unusual language coming out in some of this, but she couldn’t make out which tongue it was. The worship flowed very nicely but Madeleine could tell it was more highly structured than it looked.
The songs tended to become slower as the meeting progressed. As the music stopped, people started coming up to an empty chair next to the men, speaking with them about something. In most cases they got up after that and gave some kind of message, Bible passage, or revelation.
At this point Claudia got up and went forward to the chair. Unfortunately for her, the men evidently didn’t approve what she had to say, because she got up without sharing. But she was undeterred; she pulled on Avalon’s sleeve and whispered in something in his ear. He perked up at whatever she said, and she returned to her seat.
“What was their problem with you?” Madeleine whispered to Claudia.
“I don’t know, but Father Avalon will take care of it.”
“Take care of what?”
“Announcing that you’re here!” Claudia jubilantly replied. Madeleine found herself wishing that the men had not been overturned upon appeal.
With the end of sharing, Father Avalon got up to speak. The doorkeepers were still stationed at every entrance; Madeleine could tell that they looked out as often as they looked in. She expected Avalon to give some kind of homily, but instead he stuck with a few announcements, most of them related to the anti-abortion and pro-morality activities that had made him a stench in the nostrils of both his bishop and of Denise’s father. At the end of that, however, he had another announcement to make:
“We have with us a very special guest of one of our newest people, Claudia Yedd. Miss des Cieux, would you stand up?” Madeleine dutifully complied. “This is Madeleine des Cieux, the young lady who prayed for Carol to be healed of blindness. We are honoured to have you with us tonight.” Once again Madeleine could feel everybody’s eyes on her. She sat down and the meeting continued.
“I thought they would do more,” Claudia said to Madeleine, puzzled. Madeleine breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.
After Avalon was through one of the men got up to the microphone.
“That’s Francis Xavier Eck,” Claudia informed her. “He owns a petrol station up here. He’s one of your father’s customers.” Eck had travelled extensively on the mainland, visiting prayer groups, covenant communities, and attending seminars, and he wasn’t shy about reminding everyone about his travels. Eck went on at length—about an hour, actually—about the need for everyone to come under the umbrella of authority, especially that of the prayer group, which he announced was becoming a covenant community. Madeleine found his speech hard to follow and largely irrelevant to her situation.
When Eck ended his address, they had special prayer for a couple of people, then the musicians played their final song, and the meeting was over. Madeleine was rushed by a few people, but not many. She turned around from speaking to an elderly couple to find herself face to face with Father Avalon.
“Miss des Cieux,” he said, “it is a real privilege for us to have you with us tonight. Your miracles have done more to encourage us to continue that just about anything else that has taken place in the last two years.”
“I am glad that you are encouraged,” Madeleine replied. “Unfortunately some people are not.”
“Like the bishop,” Claudia added.
“There are many things that he does not understand,” Avalon admitted. “We must do our best. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then you must come back,” Avalon insisted. “And, of course, you are also welcome to the folk Mass we have on Sunday evenings.”
“Thank you,” Madeleine said.
“I want to speak with you some more, but I must greet some people before they get gone.” He turned and left. In his wake were some of the musicians. The guys were unwilling to simply let a girl like Madeleine get away without trolling for her phone number, especially the “two Steves”—Eck, F.X.’s son, and Brenner, the son of an army officer. Both Madeleine’s contemporaries, their eyes showed that they were overwhelmed with what had come up from Evan Point.
Eck turned away to talk with others. But Brenner hung around through the rest of the musicians talking with her to ask her an unusual question.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” Steve began, “but do you guys have a sensual society on the Point?”
“A what?” Madeleine said, taken aback by the question.
“I’m sorry, a Life Identification Society.”
“Unfortunately,” Madeleine replied. She was still uneasy at the line of questioning.
“So do we,” Steve admitted. “They’re trying to force me to join it. One of my teachers has told me that he’ll flunk me somehow if I don’t. I need you to pray for me that I’ll get through.”
Madeleine thought a second, then reached into her purse for the aloe vera tube. Claudia lit up when she realised what was going on.
“This will work,” Claudia assured him. Madeleine crossed herself and invoked the Trinity, then she took the tube and anointed him on the forehead, praying that he would graduate from University Comprehensive without joining the Life Identification Society. She ended, as always, in the name of Jesus Christ.
“Thanks,” he said. “Hope you come back.”
“So do I,” Madeleine said, a little cheerier at meeting these people.
Madeleine and the Yedds gathered together to begin their journeys home. Suddenly Madeleine discovered that F.X. Eck was standing in front of her with two other of the core group men.
“What were you doing with the young man Brenner?” he asked.
“I was praying for him,” Madeleine said. “He asked me to. He is in a difficult position in his school.”
“Have you been baptised in the Holy Spirit?” Eck asked her.
“Excuse me?” Madeleine asked, puzzled.
“How can you perform miracles without the fullness of the Holy Spirit?” Eck demanded.
“Because God permitted it, perhaps?” she answered.
“We do not permit people outside the group to pray for others,” Eck rudely informed her. “You will have to take some instruction and become a part of our group. We cannot have transients doing this kind of thing.” With that he and his companions walked away.
“What is going on?” Madeleine asked Claudia.
“I’m not sure,” Claudia replied. “Father Avalon has been great. The way these men run this group reminds me of the Lodge.”
“Let’s go then,” Madeleine said. They gathered up Carol and caught the bus to the transfer point. Claudia insisted that they accompany Madeleine to at least where she got off on Central Avenue. Pierre had left his 2CV at the end of the street, which she drove on home. She related in brief her experience with her father.
“I assume from what you have said that you do not plan to return,” Pierre surmised.
“No, Papa, I don’t,” Madeleine confirmed.