Steve Erickson - Rubicon Beach

They entered the maze of the river. They slid their boat into one of the river’s green and blue boxes, expecting to trigger secret panels and swiveling walls. She wouldn’t have expected anyone could find his way, when she had been so unable to find her own way. The sailor inched along carefully, his eyes watching everything and his ears hearing everything, feeling his way. It grew dark and they continued. He’s a good sailor, she thought, this bastard who’s murdered my father.

Of course I’ll kill you, she explained to him in her language which he’d come to understand better. He laughed back at her but bound her hands. He put her in the cargo hold. Night came and he lit a candle and peered into the hold at her. He touched his fingers to her face and she snarled at him, Don’t even think of it. It’s not even a possibility. When he was not dissuaded by this advice she carefully aimed and delivered her foot straight between his legs. He howled in agony, and when the pain subsided and the water had cleared from his eyes, he saw she was no longer in the cargo hold but at the front of the boat on the edge. I will sleep on the bed of this stinking river, she told him in her language, which he now understood with startling clarity, before you’ll touch me again. He rubbed his chin and his pants aIternately. It’s better this way, he said, nodding. Nothing gets complicated this way. He wanted her less than the fortune her face would bring him.

By the end of the following day she saw the end of the maze before them, opening up in a white glare. It was then she noticed the watercreature guiding them out. Traitor, she whispered to her face, don’t think you do this for me. If you were a friend to me you would have guided us back to the village the way you did the night I tried to escape. If you’d been a friend to me I would have gone and my father would be alive. Your treachery is no less terrible simply because you might have thought it was all a joke. Someday I’ll kill you too, she said to herself, as I will kill him.

When they emerged from the maze of the river, there hovered above them a mining town built into the side of a hill, small windows blinking out of the black earth. Those who lived in the town had spent ten years searching for gold. At every point that they decided the venture was futile and considered deserting the town for good, someone would strike it rich and the promise of a new lode made the town come alive again. Coba and Catherine happened into port in the aftermath of one of these discoveries, so that the air of the town was charged with frenzy. In the evenings the miners came trudging back to town exhausted in body but not hope. A small saloon and brothel operated, the liquor of the one and the favors of the other flourishing only in a dearth of competitive attractions.

Catherine anticipated the sailor’s schemes. Don’t think you’ll sell me to these men, she said to him. I’ll sleep on the bed of this stinking river before— Yes, yes, Coba cut her off wearily. He took Catherine to the saloon where he kept her outside, bound in rope and rags under a cloth. As he had with the men of the Crowd, he lured the miners into a game. He told his stories of kings and queens and jacks. He gave special emphasis to the ace of spades, which would unearth, he explained, the treasure of the hills. He proceeded with efficiency to lose his money. In the early hours of the morning, among the pale crusty yellow of the lantern fires, beneath the sagging roof of the saloon and the constant drizzle of the jungle, he looked at the mangy faces around him aglow with new windfalls; he noted how they were primed for the eventuality of fortune by their belief in the lodes of the mines. Convinced after weeks or months or years that good luck was just beyond their grasp, they couldn’t help but believe Coba was an omen of that luck and that, beginning this very night, none of them except Coba could lose. Coba did not refute this conviction. Rather he sat back, opened his arms good-naturedly, and said, What is it about me? Why is it fate hates me so? Is it that I tempt it so often? All right I’m a fool. But I’m a sailor and I love navigating the winds of fate even as they dash me on the rocks time and again. So I have nothing more with which to gamble now, virtually nothing I should say, nothing that would interest serious men, my final possession would only amuse you, gild the lily as it were, and what do you need with more gold than that already at your fingertips though I suppose (he said, rubbing his chin) if there were no answer to that you wouldn’t be here on this mountain far from the pleasures of civilization, stuck with the bad whisky of this establishment and the company next door, of whom you must be presently tired assuming (allowing a moment for each man in the room to contemplate the familiar whores of the brothel) assuming you were ever much diverted in the first place.

None of them knew what he was talking about.

It’s nothing, said Coba, forget it. It’s been an interesting evening, he said, standing up from the small table of three and a half legs and picking up the cards. I’ll leave with what I still have, my prized possession, get while the getting’s good. Whimsically he turned over the top card of the deck to reveal the ace of spades, and then the next to reveal the queen of clubs; he chuckled to himself knowingly and snorted with relief.

Wait a minute, the miners said, what do you mean, prized possession? What does this mean, ace of spades, queen of clubs?

It means I get while the getting’s good, Coba said again. Ace of spades is the card of your fortune, and the queen of clubs is the card of a woman with hair black as this earth (he stomped on the ground for effect).

Where is this woman? the miners asked with some excitement.

Coba squirmed as though placed in an uncomfortable position. You place me, he said, in an uncomfortable position. My wares would only appear sentimental before worldly revelers who know the cognac of empires rather than the trivial aperitifs of women.

The miners still didn’t know precisely what he was talking about, but by now they had gotten the drift, namely that the sailor didn’t want to tell them about something important. You’re trying to get out of telling us about something important, the miners accused.

All right, it’s so, said Coba. But calling her a woman overstates the matter, she’s only a girl, really. . He cast them a sly look and then, resigned, threw up his hands. He gestured for them to wait. He went out the back of the saloon while the miners crowded after him, fearing he would try to get away. He led in Catherine who was still under the cloth, and unveiled her like a statue.

For the next few moments they all stood in silence, the miners thunderstruck, Catherine seething in their midst, and Coba with his wide amazed smile. He’d never seen men so awed by a face. Men who’d spent years searching for nothing but gold forgot years and gold aItogether. This, Coba said to them rather heavily, is all I have left. She’s a wild girl, I found her living among the animals of the jungle. She’s a river girl, you can tell by the way the water of the river lies on her naked body, what I mean of course is you could tell if you had ever seen the water of the river lying on her naked body. The miners still didn’t say anything; they appeared dazed. So I found her, the sailor went on, and clothed her (he picked at her dress) and fed her and cared for her, and as you can see I’m still in the process of taming her (he pointed at the rope around her hands), though no man has yet done that, if you get my meaning. So I’d feel, well, irresponsible turning over such a girl to a man, in the way I’d feel irresponsible turning over a lynx. God knows what she’s capable of. I think we all shudder to consider it.