The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 9

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted May 22, 2019 

THE BOY IN THE GRAY COCOON

And this he always kept in mind
And formed a crooked knife
And ran about with bloody hands
To seek his mother's life.
William Blake

With dusk coming upon us like a dark frown, I made the helicopter connection and was soon skimming over the bay. The destination, my pilot informed me, was Alcatraz Island.

That notorious name struck me like a glacial blast.  During the Thirties, I'd been occupying the body of a career criminal. Things had gotten messy and the police intervened into a skirmish that we knights were having with Boneyard's men.  I'd already been  stunned by a head blow in the course of the fight and was apprehended in a place that a legitimate parolee should have been avoiding.  Judged guilty of having broken parole, I'd been dispatched to the new federal prison, and there remained until rescued by Archimage in his own good time. 

It had been a bad experience.  The guards upon “the Rock” were permitted to use brutality as a matter of course.  It was perfectly acceptable to shoot to kill every real or suspected escaping inmate.  Even the location for the prison had been diabolically chosen, a barren island squatting inside a climactic anomaly where the arctic winds blew continually.  A favorite “practical joke” was for the guards to turn on the cell-block air conditioners on the coldest nights of the year.  It was a challenge for even the most hardened thug to endure the soul-destroying miseries of the Rock.

In 1963, the then-president shout down the prison as a blot upon the Republic. Was it only a coincidence that he was assassinated later that year?  For years following its closure, the island was kept as a tourist attraction.  Then, suddenly, it was declared off-limits again.  The media barely put out the story, except convey the official line that Alcatraz was being reconditioned as an anti-terrorist training center.  I'd learned the truth in good time.  The installation had been designated as an Aladdin black site for the internment of ultras, some of them illegally kidnapped, as in the days of the French Bastille.

According to the information I'd gleaned, the Eden Blake of this world must have visited Alcatraz on Saturday the 16th, shortly after her son had been incarcerated.  I had no way of knowing what she'd learned while there, and so would have to bluff my way along. If necessary, I'd cover my cluelessness by making it seem that I was distracted and distraught due to the awful things that had occurred in the Blake home Friday night.   

As we hovered over the complex, my pilot took to the radio and called in.  A voice from below “welcomed” us to what it called “Alactraz Ultra Confinement Center.”  Upon setting down, the first face I recognized on the tarmac was Dr. Sarn's.  Tall, classically handsome, blonde, hard-bodied, Sarn was really stacked.  Though pushing forty, the doctor didn't look it.  Agency rumors held that that she had a colorful past.  Sarn supposedly started out at eighteen as an Aladdin version of the classic “honey-trap,” an international femme fatale spy.  She was built for the role, admittedly, though it was hard to imagine Sarn ever counterfeiting enough warmth to entice enemy agents into vulnerable, controlled situations.

Though head of my division, she'd let her subordinates supervise the lowly job that I'd been performing. That changed when I was preparing for my covert mission to Britain.  From my frequent contacts with her then, I had learned that Sarn was ice-cold and all business.  She didn't offer, nor tolerate, any unnecessary chit-chat.  While “knowing” her, I still hardly knew anything about her.

Having met me outside the 'copter, the doctor extended no greeting but curtly told me to follow her.  While doing so, I did my utmost to memorize every twist and turn along the way, just in case. It was not outside the realm of possibility that I'd soon need to mastermind a prison break from Alcatraz Island.

We paused before a sealed portal that looked about as formidable as a bank vault.   Gaining entry required Sarn to provide both a thumb-print and an eye scan. Once we were inside, we proceeded along a long row of cells, where I saw prisoners being held, captive ultras, probably.  Then I recognized a face that amazingly resembled my own. 

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 2

Posted 05-07-19 

Revised 06-09-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 1, Part 2

December 19, 1871, Continued 

The aunt and niece found Molly waiting for them at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. Reunited, they walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop. The owner was a young man in this thirties with a round face and brown, thinning hair.  His sideburns were robust, as was the mustache that flowed across his cheeks to merge with them.

“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”

Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”

The auburn frowned. “Tomfoolery for empty heads. I want to read about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have enough sword-fighting.”

The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”

Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”

“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his step ladder and drew down from a high shelf a fancily embossed volume with gilded edges. He climbed down and handed it to his young visitor.

“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though the pages. “I read a few stories about knights in some of our school books.”

“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”

Myra knitted her brows. “What does it cost?”

“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.

“Well, I don't have any money at all,” she replied.

“We'd better save this one for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any new dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”

“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.

“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't seem to get enough of those sorts of stories.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that so much blood and thunder would appeal to a young lady.”

“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”

“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.

“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. Then her perturbed expression transformed to whimsy. “Surely, the exploits of such black-hearted villains would keep an innocent girl awake at night. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”

“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his available stock and offered them to Myra.

While Kirby attended to her companions, Molly had been exploring the shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.

The latter accepted it and read the title: The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. Paging through it, she saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.

“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail that a young lady might not be ready for it.”

“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they'll be more different still.”

“I think that this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying a dime novel to her guardian.

“Very well,” consented Irene. Then she returned her attention to the tract in her hands. She was getting second thoughts. It might be better to allow Myra to read something written by a medical man, and in that way learn things about a woman's body that should not be broached by anyone other than a decidedly mature woman or a doctor.

Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and book separately, binding them with lengths of string. Once Molly and companions were back outside, she ushered them along the boardwalk to the news office. She did  not think they would mind getting a good story about a young lady who had been abducted by outlaws. It they published the story it would inform everyone of Myra's arrival at the same time.

The saloon-keeper only paused long enough to scan the advertisements posted on the shop's exterior bulletin board.
 
Then, looking through the glass, she took note that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of what might be important work, she rethought the idea of disturbing him. She mentioned her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.

“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want take the fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”

“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.