South From Alaska

Trees. Almost black. Endless, trackless. In the far distance there were tiny mountains chipped from cubes of ice. Underneath, slipping past, were trees.

He was transfixed by the trees. His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat. The trees looked soft but he knew that they were hard. Trees were made of wood. They were tough and hard.

He felt ill. He knew he was hallucinating but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Look at me”

He heard the voice but it was only in his mind.

“Look at me.”

He tried to take his eyes away from the window and those endless trees.

“Look at me.”

The voice was becoming more insistent.

He dragged his head around to gaze at the person sitting next to him.

She put her hand on his and gripped gently. It was real to him. The touch, the feel of her hand.

He tried to look away but her left hand came around and firmly held his right cheek. He imagined that her hand slipped a little on the sweat.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair to the shoulder, big blue eyes and a warmth, a humanity, in her. He felt a tear well up.

“The trees....” he gasped at her.

“Yes. The trees. We are a long way above them. All is well. Relax.” her voice was soft, breathless.

He turned back to the window. The trees were closer now, he was sure. Much closer.

Panic was freezing his muscles and clamping down hard on his heart. He tried to explain to her but the words would not form. His mouth was dry and the breath would not squeeze past his tight throat.

The worst of all his fears was realised.

Crunching, splintering, tearing. The ‘plane hit the treetops and descended down into the branches and trunks. It bucked and gyrated. With a deafening ripping noise a huge branch smashed through the floor; the sharp, shattered end speared into his chest pinning him to the seat.

He tried to breathe but nothing would come—only pain. Searing hot agony coursed through every fibre of his being and pounded his head, pushing his eyes from the back.

Somewhere down in the core of his soul a voice said, ‘Let me die. Now. I beg you, let me die.’

The ‘plane flew on. Outside all was serene. The trees floated past far below.

Outside his head a voice, soft and warm, said, “Hold on. Stay with me.”

He looked out of the window. It was dark. His back was propped up so he could see out.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked.

“Six months.”

He was not surprised to hear her voice. He turned towards her. She was perfect. Blonde hair combed to a fine sheen, big blue eyes full of compassion and warmth. Her hand came out and held his, softly.

He turned back to the window. White. Snow. As far as the eye could see it was just snow. In the far distance were tiny mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

The policeman appraised her appreciatively. She was not tall but she was attractively formed. Blonde hair to the shoulder, blue eyes and a soft, kind voice with a sort of Louisiana lilt that made you think she was singing to you. She was groomed perfectly.

“What did he say his name was?”

“Shudde M’ell. I told him that meant he was big and burrowing. Appropriate, no?”

“And you told him your name was....”

“Dejah Thoris.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he expected someone darker, somehow, with a name like that. Perhaps with black hair. He smiled.”

“And then?”

“He clutched his chest and collapsed. I called the medics.”

“So you had not yet gone upstairs to conduct business.”

“How diplomatic of you, Officer. No. Not yet.”

“Was he a regular?”

“No. I had never met him before.”

“Thank you, Miss...” he consulted his pad, blushing. She was exceptionally attractive, “Mrs... sorry... Solo. If we need anything we’ll call you.”

“Certainly, Officer.” she stroked his lapel. He blushed deeper, “For you, I will always co-operate.”

He watched her walk away and wondered if every joint had been recently oiled.

Half a mile later she peeled the patch from her right palm and dropped it into a garbage bin. She was confident it would not be found as she was also confident that the toxin would not be traceable.

Fifteen minutes later she entered the lobby of her hotel and took the lift. In her room she gazed in the mirror and thought, ‘Damn. Even I could get hard looking at that.’

He peeled off the wig, unhooked the ear-rings and unclasped the bra with the false breasts in it.

After a hot shower he lay down on the bed with just the towel over him. He had arranged the pillows so he was propped up at the back.

He looked out of the window. It was dark.

“How long do the nights last here?”

“Six months.” she said. Her voice was soft, breathless. There was a Southern lilt in it. He imagined she was singing to him.

He turned towards her. She was a dream. Not tall but a golden treasure. Blonde, big blue eyes full of kindness and warmth.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Padmé Amidala.” she replied, “And you?”

“Hari Seldon.” he told her, “I would have expected someone darker, somehow. Black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. Her hand came over and held his softly, gently.

He had a vague thought of trees but it was immediately swept away in a tide of amnesia.

“Have I been here long?” he asked her.

“No. Not long. Rest.”

There were familiar sounds from the next room. He discarded them and focussed on the window. Still, they affected him. She grasped him through the blankets. It was a comfort. He relaxed.

Snow. As far as the eye could see it was white snow. Untrampled, pure, flat, clean. In the far, far distance were tiny little mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

In the hallway she spoke to the officer. The officer admired her nakedness but did not wonder at it. She, for her part, felt no embarrassment. All seemed normal.

“I was passing the room and heard a scream. So I reported it to the hotel staff.”

“Could I take your name, please?”

“Certainly. I’m Medical Technician Peters.”

“Thank you for your help, Ma’am. We will take it from here.”

She went down to the lobby and stripped the pad from her right palm, dropping it into a bin on the way out. And then smoothed out her charcoal grey pencil skirt that accentuated her hips and thighs.

Tiredness overwhelmed her.

She found another hotel closer to the town centre and checked in.

“Your name please, Ma’am?”

“Zoë Washburne.”

The clerk at reception had the vaguest feeling that he should have expected someone darker—perhaps with black hair.

He handed her the key to her room, “Have a pleasant stay, Ma’am.”

“Why did he want my name if he is going to call me ‘Ma’am’?” she muttered to herself on the way up to her room.

The card never worked first time. It was always a struggle to unlock doors with these new card keys. At last the door opened. She giggled happily.

“Kyle Reese. You are already here, my love!”

“Yes, Ripley, my sweet. I yearn for you.”

They were making love. Slowly, gently, quietly. He revelled in her warmth and nuzzled her neck, his fingers twining in her blonde hair. She mewled at him to let him know that she, too, was happy. Every touch was valued, every feeling explored and cherished.

Afterwards he lay back, propped up on the pillows and looked out of the window. It was dark. Black.

There was no recollection of their love-making. No memory of her warmth, the feel of her skin on his.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked her.

“Six months.” she told him.

She reached over from the chair and took his hand.

“What is your name?”

“Dr. David Bowman. And you? What is your name?”

“Dale Arden.”

“Dale Arden. I should have expected someone darker with black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. It was like the sun coming out. He felt his heart warming. She was blonde and stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were big and blue and yet she had warmth, a friendliness about her.

She stood and stretched. Her wings were long and slender, they had no feathers. He wondered at that and then forgot.

The window was bright. Outside it was white. Snow. As far as you could see just snow until, far, far, away there were mountains. Tiny mountains that seemed to have been chipped from cubes of ice.

He couldn’t breathe. He wondered if he should be able to breathe. Perhaps he had forgotten to breathe.

The window was brighter now. The snow seemed to almost glow. He moved toward it and slid into it along the brightest path.

Two paramedics brought the body in to the morgue.

“Heart attack on the inbound from Alaska. We tried the paddles a few times but it was no good—he’d been an’ gone already. Old lady sat next to him said he just grabbed his chest an’ keeled over. She called the Steward an’ whoop-de-doo! Here we are.”

The morgue attendant asked him for a name.

“Oh, yeah. It’s here. A Mr Ronald Proctor. He’s a Science Fiction writer going to some convention here in Seattle. His wife’ll be along soon to collect the body. She was already here. At the convention, that is.”

Two hours later she arrived. The morgue attendant whistled under his breath. She was a real looker, alright.

“Come this way please, Mrs Proctor. Your husband is in the chapel.”

He glanced sideways, appraising her. She wasn’t tall but she was very nicely shaped. Blonde hair to the shoulders, big blue eyes and a kindliness about her like she needed to be somebody’s Mum.

“Could you tell me why he had a plaster on his right palm?”

“He was putting up boarding on a new shed and got a blister from the screwdriver.” she dabbed her eye gently with a tissue and sniffed.

The body was laid out on a board in the chapel. She nodded, reached over and took his hand. Softly, gently.

“Goodbye, my Dan Dare. Your Wilma Dearing will miss you.” she kissed him on the lips, wept and left.

The attendant was entranced by her voice, she sounded as if she was singing to him in that quiet Louisiana lilt. He watched her go. She walked from him like every joint in her body had just been freshly oiled.

He went back up to the morgue to lie down for a nap on one of the benches.

By his head was a window. It was snowing...