Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

He’d said to me, “What I’m attempting is what the Hindus call Klartraum. I know you often doubt my rationality, old friend, but you have never doubted my honesty. Astroprojection. Soul travel, psychic navigation. That’s what I’ve been doing nearly every evening since the sixth day of our search for Janet. Sometimes I find her. I can see her. I know exactly how she felt, what she said.”

He added that there were five forms of soul travel: imaginative projection and trances were two that I still remembered. Something else he’d said also stuck with me: “The ashes of the average cremated person weigh nine pounds. The volume of the Earth’s moon is precisely the same as the volume of the Pacific Ocean.”

When I told him that I failed to see the connection, he nodded, very pleased with himself. “Exactly. Specialization is for insects. ”

Which made even less sense, though now the prospect of soul travel-as ridiculous as it was-seemed an appealing thing to try. So, as I lay in the hot water, I tried to imagine some inner sensibility soaring out of my body, over the horizon of rain forest to where, finally, I found my girl.

I watched as I touched my ghostly hand to Amelia’s soft face, wanting desperately to draw all the fear and pain out of her, and then whispered my thoughts into her ear. I’m coming for you. Hold on. I’ll be there.

Keesha said, “American man? Can you hear me?”

I’d fallen asleep in the tub. The water had been nearly too hot to endure. Now it was barely warm.

I looked at my watch. I’d been in there asleep for almost two hours.

Something was wrong with the girl. Her face was very pale, and she was not only trembling but also sweating.

“I made the tea from the lehuenka plant,” she explained. “I chewed the root, just as the old women told us as girls to do if a stranger plants a creature in our bellies. Now I must sweat myself in this hot tub. I will need help. Will you help me?”

I pulled the plug, stood, and found my glasses, then found a towel. “Of course,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. But my advice is let’s get you to a doctor. You’re in pain, this could be serious.”

Keesha shook her head-no. No modern doctors-as she said, “I didn’t know the tea would hurt my bowels so much. Perhaps the sweating will help.”

I said, “I wish you could have waited a few days.”

“Ten or twelve days past a woman’s cycle, the tea no longer works. It may not work now. You saw the man who created the creature. Would you choose to carry it to birth?”

I answered, “You’ve got a point.”

I refilled the tub with steaming water. As I did, the girl pulled the ornate blouse over her head, shed the cotton skirt, and stood naked, shivering, arms crossed over brown, heavy breasts. She was heavy-hipped, short-legged, and her nipples and areolas, I noted, were an unusual clay-like shade of red.

As she lowered herself into the tub, she said, “It would be better if we had a sweat hut. Then I could lay back while you poured water on the rocks for heat. The paje would come and give me the juice of murure bark to purify my blood, and the women would massage my body to loosen the creature inside me, and let it know that it is not wanted.

“If the creature still refused to leave, the paje, or another man of my choice could then enter me, and deposit his seed. In that way, the creature would be replaced by a child of my own wanting.”

I cleared my throat, uneasy with the direction the conversation was headed. “There’s some herbal tea in the kitchen. I can make tea for you, or get you something cold, with ice.”

The girl said she’d like something hot to drink, and some honey, too, if I could find it. Then she added, “When you come back, it will be necessary for you to rub my belly and make the creature move.”

I sat naked in the tub behind the girl, her head and hair comfortable on my shoulder, her eyes closed, no pain now showing on her face, as my fingers kneaded her stomach and abdomen, and then lower on her body, too, the tendoned areas between her thighs.

She’d shown me exactly what she wanted me to do. Insisted on the familiarity. “Beginning at my shoulders, first the front, then the back, you must gently stroke downward, pushing everything in my body toward the place where a woman is open to the earth. Over and over, you must do this.”

I massaged her for an hour. Longer, perhaps. There was no hint of sexuality between us, no escalating passion, despite what my hands were doing, the private place where my fingers touched.

She was sick, in trouble, in need of help. I felt a closeness to her, a very real intimacy, but no more.

Once, her eyes still closed, she reached beneath the water and encircled my penis with her hand. Holding me, she said, “If you wish, I can make you ready, and you may enter me. You have done much to help, and it would be good to replace the creature with your child.”

I kissed the top of her head. “No, Keesha. I’m flattered, but no.”

“Are you certain? In just this short time, your male part has told my hands that it would soon be ready.” She squeezed me for emphasis.

I lifted her hand away. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the medicine worked?”

“Not yet, but it may.”

I pulled her body closer to mine. “Lay back. Try to sleep.”

When I awoke, the water had once again turned cool. Even so, Keesha didn’t want to get out.

She seemed in a sort of mild stupor, as if the drug she’d taken had made her slightly drunk. I got her out of the tub, rubbed her dry, then steered her into the bedroom, and tucked her in, naked, beneath the sheets.

I checked my watch: 3:15 P.M.

I dressed myself in the same clothes I’d been wearing, then went out the door of our suite, into the hallway of the main houses. My jungle boots echoed on the tile floors. There was no other sound. The place seemed deserted, silent as a crypt.

As I passed the dining room, I noticed that only two places were set: very fine-looking china and silver, and green cloth napkins. If Tyner was expecting to eat with me, why hadn’t they set a place for Keesha?

I continued walking but then stopped: a telephone. There was a black cordless telephone atop the drink trolley.

I stepped into the room, looked around-no one there-then took the phone, pleased to hear a dial tone. I still had Harrington’s number in my pocket, and I looked at it as I dialed. I heard two rings, and when a man’s voice answered, I said quickly, almost whispering, “Hal. It’s Doc. Our chopper was shot down, the crew’s dead, and I need a pickup ASAP. I need help.”

Then I listened to a man who was definitely not Hal Harrington reply, “We don’t need help, Commander. I thought I had you convinced. We can do it ourselves with just a small team. Small risk and big profit-stay where you are. I’ll take you to the war room and I’ll show you.”

A minute later, Curtis Tyner was standing there, grinning at me and wagging his finger-naughty, naughty for trying to call out-and he said, “Follow me. We’ll take a look at some topo maps and discuss our strategy. After that”-he paused, looking at me as if assessing my worthiness-“after that,” he continued slowly, “I think I’ll take you down into the armory-the Vault, I call it-and show you something. It’s something I’ve shown only to a couple of other white men. Ever. My collection. Not many would understand. I think you might. It’s quite a thing to see.”

“You collect weaponry?” I asked, feeling oddly uneasy, not certain I wanted an answer or to see what it was that Tyner collected.

“Oh, of course. Lots and lots of weaponry from all over the world. Fighting. It’s my business, understand. One of my businesses, anyway. But I have other things, too. Unusual things that you may appreciate.”