Welcome to the Borderlands – Chapter 5

 

 

“When I die I want to meet God and say, what the hell were you thinking, like what were you thinking?”   —Indian Larry

 

 The right part of the fork began next to an adobe wall. Giant cactus grew beside it. Behind the wall was a large house with a turret roof; it looked neglected. Between the house and the wall were rows of fruit trees; they also looked neglected. The bamboo ended where the wall began. Sunflowers, some over seven feet in height, bordered the beginning of the left fork.

 

Larry looked first at the right fork that went through a locked gate then at the left fork, “The left fork after a couple of miles goes straight up the mountain in the granddaddy of hill climbs; it’s not as steep as Utah’s Widowmaker but it’s paved and much longer. With no turnouts or places to stop a stall or missed shift will give you a terminal one way ticket back to the bottom. The good news is I can see the front part of third bridge at the top. 

 

“The right fork, the one Aaron told us to take, doesn’t even go towards the bridge. In fact, my heightened senses are telling me it’s dangerous. If he lied about the spiders and freeing Hilts the odds are he’s trying to trick us into going the wrong way. I vote we take the left fork.”

 

Riding over to within a foot of the wall, I said, “The house looks lived in; how dangerous can it be to say hello? Could be the owner might even have information we could use; he may even have some fresh water?”

 

“Don’t touch the…”

 

Larry’s warning came at the same time my tire touched the gate and the temperature dropped as if we’d stepped inside a meat locker. Seconds later the rank smell of a meat locker blew over the wall and our bikes quit running.

 

“Too late to ride out of here,” yelled Larry as he jumped off his bike. “Whatever’s on the other side has cast some type of spell on our engines and is right behind the gate.” 

 

As a giant hand began to slowly push the gate outwards the deep voice that belonged to the hand said, “You fellas weren’t goin’ to leave without sayin’ hello were you? I don’t get many visitors anymore unless they’ve been sent by Aaron. Were you two sent here by my friend Aaron?”

 

At the sight of the gate moving outward Pa’s ah-shucks face, actually his electric blue eyes, flashed before me and I found myself pulling my guitar around from behind me where it had been strapped on my back.

 

Taller than Charon and with a body that more than matched the giant hand, he smiled, “Would’ve been impolite not to greet visitors, especially ones,” turning to look at me, “that knock at my gate. My name’s Paul Femus.”

 

His smile highlighted he was wearing sunglasses with thick coke bottle lenses set so close together they joined in the middle. And when he turned to look at Larry I would’ve sworn the two lenses were really one large lens.

 

“The name on the gate says Paul E Femus,” said Larry. “What’s the E stand for?”

 

Dressed in stained overalls, Femus bowed, “Paul E Femus at your service and the E stands for else.”

 

“Else?”

 

“Else, as in you two,” and Femus moved fast for being so large, “should’ve chosen somewhere ‘else’ to stop.”

 

Had he not been nearsighted and had his glasses not fallen off revealing his one eye I wouldn’t have been able to roll off the back of the Wide Glide, pull my guitar to the front or know he was a Cyclops.

 

Scrambling to my feet I remembered Pa saying I’d know when to play. And so I played the G chord and it sounded dead, as I knew it would without power. But when I struck it a second time followed by an F then an A my guitar began to resonate as if it had been plugged in, which should’ve been impossible as there were no nearby electrical outlets. Femus stumbled then staggered.

 

“Keep playing!” shouted Larry. “He can’t stand it.”

 

I’ve been booed off stage before. Both times it was because I was opening for a big name and the audience was impatient; and so I let go with a series of chords. Larry’s chopper roared to life. Whatever spell Femus used to stop our engines had been broken by the playing of my guitar.

 

Bleeding from his nose and eye and holding onto both sides of the gate, Femus choked, “How’d you know to play; bet it was Pa that told you? Pa knows ‘bout spells.”

 

Jumping off his bike, Larry shouted, “Keep it up, walk forward; get him to go back inside.”

 

Femus gathered strength and was pulling himself upright when I switched from playing random chords, pointed the guitar at him and played David Gilmour’s legendary riff from “Dark Side of the Moon” by Pink Floyd.

 

Femus let go of the gate and stumbled backwards.

 

Pounding a screwdriver through the latch, Larry shouted, “Get on your bike, I’ll follow!”

 

“You go; the gate won’t hold him if I stop playing.”

 

Larry started to argue then ran for his bike. He’d ridden about a hundred feet up the road and I’d just gotten on the Wide Glide when my guitar went dead. Two seconds later the gate buckled outward.

 

Femus seemed taller and was swiftly looking from side to side with a nearsighted squint. Without his glasses and if I didn’t move he wouldn’t see me, but I was too frightened not to move. Throwing my guitar over my shoulder then starting my bike became one motion. Praying it wouldn’t stall I popped the clutch. With the front brake locked my rear tire swung around spraying chunks of dirt towards Femus.

 

“Leavin’ so soon, not gonna say goodbye?” bellowed Femus, at the same time lunging forward.

 

From then on things happened fast, ending with my rear wheel grabbing the road and Femus almost grabbing me. 

 

“Tell Ma,” shouted Femus, his kettledrum voice receding, “things are changin’; tell Pa we’ve taken the diner and that we’re comin’ for the both of ‘em.”

 

Riding virtually straight up the mountain was now our only chance of reaching the third bridge. Larry’s description of it being the granddaddy of hill climbs wasn’t an exaggeration; no turnoffs made it a deal breaker. There’d be no second chance, no prisoners. No one would survive a fall.

 

“I’ll lead;” said Larry after we’d ridden about a mile. “Stay to my right; if I fall keep going. If you stop to help it’s so steep you’ll just end up falling yourself. It’s paved and our bikes have enough power; the problem is traction. We’ll be ok if we stay balanced. Don’t lean so far to the front that you spin the rear tire; don’t lean so far back that you go over backwards. We’ve another mile until we get to the base of the mountain so carry as much speed as you can.”

 

From then on things happened fast. Using the tremendous torque of his Pratt and Whitney twin, Larry was able to short shift quickly up through the gears and was almost a football field ahead of me when we hit the foot of the grade. So abrupt was the change in direction my bike completely compressed its front shocks.

 

Forward or was it upward, at this point our direction was relative. Seconds into the climb and already hundreds of feet above the valley, I was already shifting down into the lower gears. Larry was ahead and to my left.

 

Bamboo forest and the adjoining fields at this height looked like a green carpet and covered the valley floor out to where Femus lived. The area within his compound looked brown like a piece had been burnt. I could only glance down for a moment; I had to focus on not slipping or falling backwards.

 

[page break]

 

 

It would be close but we’d make it. The road, it was more like a very steep paved ramp, had backed off a few degrees of climb the last quarter mile. Finally Larry disappeared over the top; moments later I did the same thankful I’d stayed to his right. Momentum carried us across the Ridge Route; a wide turnout on the other side provided room for a safe stop. Larry was already off his bike when I skidded up beside him.

 

“Hey, we made it,” said Larry, “no thanks to Aaron’s near fatal advice. The third bridge is about fifty yards away and easily the largest I’ve seen. I can’t see the other end as it curves off into the mist. Can’t see any obstacles or barriers either, just a curtain of fog covering the last part.”

 

Above us steep snow capped hills would block the sun for most of the day. On the slopes directly behind the bridge were patches of wind twisted trees. Water ran across the road; it would be frozen once the sun set. Our decision to take Aaron’s shortcut even though it was a trap leading us to the Cyclops could very well have saved us from riding across ice in the dark and sliding over a cliff.

 

“Hilts, if he’s behind us, better get here soon,” said Larry. “This runoff will turn to ice at night. We need a fire,” then looking at the patches of twisted trees, “and rain washes broken branches under bridges.”

 

Bits of brush jammed under the end of the bridge stuck out indicating dry wood underneath. As I approached I could see it was more stacked than randomly washed there from runoffs. When I got even closer I realized the stacked wood was the side of an enormous hut.  

 

“Back off slowly, don’t run,” Larry whispered from behind me. “The hut’s door is huge.”

 

Pointing my Fender at the wood, I got ready to play.

 

“Don’t! Whatever’s in there may not know were here; why warn it? What we’re going to need is a fire between us and the bridge but we’ve nothing to burn; all the wood is next to the side of the hut.”

 

“Unless,” I replied, “we can get gas out of my tank.”

 

Larry moved quickly to close valves and undo the fuel lines below the Wide Glide’s tank while I worked as fast as I could unpacking an empty plastic bag I carry for water. An irregular snort or a snore coming from inside the hut hurried our work.

 

“The culvert,” Larry said in a whisper, at the same time nodding towards the hut and draining gas from my tank into the bag, “runs towards the bridge and into the canyon below; if you have enough gas it should get to the brush.”

 

“But not from here,” I added, “We’ve got to get closer or the gas will soak into the ground before it flows to the wood. My gas, I’ll go; I’ll get as close as I can before I pour.”

 

I waited hoping Larry would come up with a better plan but he didn’t so I started walking. Every step made the bag make little sloshing noises. At the halfway mark I looked back at Larry; he was giving me a thumbs-up. So I opened the bag’s spout and poured the gas into the culvert but it flowed faster than I would have thought. So I lit a match, dropped it into the gas and ran to my bike as the fire followed the trail of burning fuel to the bridge. But the fire also followed the trail of fuel that was leaking from my bag. So I threw the bag but not far enough and it landed on Larry’s chopper and the fire followed. And Larry’s bike and the hut burst into flames at the same time the hut’s owner jumped clear.

 

“What have you done!” yelled Hilts from behind us, who in our hurry to start the fire we hadn’t heard arrive. “None of this was to supposed to have had happened.”

 

Over ten feet in height, the hut’s owner walked slowly towards us. The good news was it wasn’t a Cyclops; the bad news was it could’ve passed for any troll I’d seen illustrated in a Grimm’s fairytale. With feet that would’ve made NBA basketball player’s feet look like a ballerina’s and tree trunk legs and arms, and hands the size of snow shovels, the troll came to a stop in front of us. The hut and Larry’s bike were now burning bright enough to cast the troll’s shadow out and over our heads and down the Ridge Route as a monstrous silhouette outlined with firelight.

 

“I can’t believe it,” said the troll with a deep voice that matched the snore I’d heard earlier coming from the hut. “And Hilts I blame you for not being with them; I thought it was agreed you’d wait for them at the first bridge?”

 

The troll was right; I’d acted too quickly and as a result ended up burning Larry’s chopper and the hut to ashes. What could I say, maybe if I hadn’t been in such a hurry?

 

“We’ll rebuild your home,” said Larry, walking around me to look straight up at the troll, “even if it means delaying what we’ve come to do. My chopper’s gone, an accident, but of more importance is the fact no one was injured.”

 

“A selfless act,” said the troll, having to step back to look down at Larry, “and your friend,” turning to stare at me, “does he agree with you?”

 

Walking over to stand beside Larry, “Yes,” I replied.

 

“Did they pass the test;” said Hilts, and when he said that we turned to face him, “did they pass the bridge’s selfless act test? Selflessness is the virtue you most admire.”

 

“That and honesty,” answered Ma from behind us and from where the troll had stood moments before, “and yes, they’ve passed the test. They’ve earned the right to cross the third bridge as did you despite your impatience.”

 

“Me?” said Hilts.

 

“Yes,” replied Ma. “Traveling here then becoming the troll left me vulnerable; you could’ve taken advantage yet didn’t. Pa and I were fairly certain you’d escaped the city you created without being infected but we had to be sure. After what happened to Andy, the infection changing Andy into Raggedy Man, we had to be sure. You can understand our concern?”

 

“I understand,” said Hilts.

 

“All of this was a test;” interrupted Larry, “the spiders and Femus were all tests?”

 

“Fighting spiders, your escape from Femus and the burning of your bike could’ve been avoided,” Ma answered looking sternly at Hilts, “if someone hadn’t been in too much of a hurry and had followed the original plan.”

 

When Larry told Ma how Charon’s guide betrayed us by not warning us about the spider webs and how Aaron’s rescue led to following a shortcut that was really a trap leading to Femus, Ma look sternly at Hilts again.

 

“Aaron’s the name Elvis sometimes uses when traveling,” said Ma. “What did he look like?”

 

“He had shiny black shoe button eyes;” I replied, “and his skin looked like tarpaper.”

 

“It wasn’t Elvis;” continued Ma, “Elvis would’ve never put you in danger. Charon will find out who or what Aaron is when he bathes him in the river Styx. Its water not only heals injuries but reveals your true identity.   

 

“Aaron sounds like he was more than what he appeared to be; you were smart to have avoided a confrontation. Regarding the spiders, you two were never meant to face them alone. Facing Femus is another story. A few years ago Pa and I made an agreement with him. We agreed to give him his own house in an isolated part of our Borderland if he behaved himself and was good to passing travelers.

 

“Blinded long ago he was able, with our help, to learn to live within his compound; the gardens behind his gate were actually quite beautiful.”

 

“Well he’s not blind anymore, nearsighted maybe but not blind and whatever he’s doing behind his locked gate sure isn’t gardening,” I said. “The place smelled more like a slaughter house than a garden.”

 

Ma seemed saddened, “I’m sorry to hear that; Femus once loved growing things almost as much as Pa.”

 

Thoughts of gardens with vegetables and fruits ripening in a warm afternoon sun underlined how cold it was getting. Dusk had come and gone so quickly only the outline of mountains seen against a near black sky marked its passage. The hut and Larry’s chopper were now only burnt embers casting just enough light to see where we’d ridden up the mountain and onto the Ridge Route and where a huge figure was pulling itself up and over the edge of the road.

 

“Ma,” I yelled, “watch out!”

 

That Femus was able to follow us up here from the valley seemed incredible and that he was able to immobilize Ma with a shout seemed impossible.

 

Ma could move only her eyes; Larry, however, became the opposite of motionless and in one movement drew and threw his knife. Femus was already across the road and running directly at us when the blade struck his shoulder, twisting his body just enough to make him miss grabbing Ma.

 

Pulling the knife blade out of his flesh like it was a tiny steel splinter, the Cyclops laughed, “You’ve a good aim for a guy missing a finger. You’ll be last; you can watch me rip your friends apart.”

 

“You’ll have to get by me first,” said a familiar voice from behind us.

 

[page break]

 

 

 Still wearing my wool watch cap, sunglasses and leather jacket and looking much thinner than when Larry and I first saw him on the elevated highway, Hilts walked slowly around to stand in front of us. As if seen through water he appeared distorted, almost transparent. Contrasting his faintness were a pair of 1880s single action Colt 45s hanging holstered from his waist. So real were the big revolvers they stood out in bold relief next to his lean body; it was as if he were transferring what life force he had left into conjuring them. Time slowed. I could see everything, the worn leather holsters, the coiled snakes carved into the ivory handles, and Hilts’ face. Only it wasn’t his face; it was Shane’s or Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti western face. And I could’ve sworn that just before Femus charged it smiled, they smiled.

 

Femus was fast and nearly upon us when Hilts or whatever guardian angel gunfighter Hilts had become moved. In a blur the right hand Colt went from being in its holster to being in Hilts’ right hand. Fire leapt from its barrel, followed by smoke, followed by more fire and smoke. With the trigger held he fanned the hammer successively in an almost continuous roar until all rounds were gone and there were six holes stitched across the Cyclops’ throat like a black pearl necklace. Femus stumbled to a stop so close he could’ve swatted us. He raised his head to bellow but couldn’t, instead he blew blood out the holes in his neck, only it wasn’t blood, it was a thin tar. 

 

And then Hilts drew his left hand Colt and emptied it into the roof of Femus’ mouth.

 

“He won’t die,” I yelled.

 

“Because he’s already dead,” cried Ma, now able to move.

 

And then Ma did the strangest thing, she reached out at the same time Femus looked down. He nodded knowingly as if seeing her for the first time and touched her hand. An arc, just a small snap of blue jumped between them and then Femus collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut and was still. A second later something hidden in the mist screamed as if one of its limbs had been cut off. 

 

“He’s been dead for a long time,” said Ma looking down at Femus. “Whatever screamed was controlling his body and used it to shout an immobilizing spell over me, luckily for only a short time. This isn’t Femus; it’s his body animated by some perverted puppeteer but it’s not Femus. The Femus I knew was, with Pa’s help, learning to live within his garden compound. My guess is that someone promised him the eyesight he’d lost long ago if he’d turn travelers away. When Femus said no to capturing them he was turned into a zombie and made to do it.”

 

Stars came out to mock us with heat we’d never feel, a heat we’d only see as bright dots in a now black sky; a reminder we’d need a fire to survive the cold night.

 

Femus was disappearing, rapidly decomposing; his huge skeleton was beginning to push through the skin. And yet Ma with no sign of revulsion reached over and closed the giant eye. She was silent for nearly a minute and only when the skull showed did she rise to her feet.

 

“This is not about getting revenge for what was done to Femus;” said Ma staring down with compassion at what was left of the Cyclops, “this is about stopping the destruction of this Borderland. Not only is this about stopping our Borderland from being destroyed but maybe all Borderlands.”

 

“I’m sorry…didn’t know…had to stop him,” said an almost too thin to see Hilts who’d staggered up to stand beside us and then collapsed.

 

Creating the two single action Colt 45s and becoming the archetypical gunfighter and then battling Femus had taken almost all of what was left of Hilts’ life force.

 

Ma rushed to his side, “He would’ve wanted you to stop him from hurting others. What you killed was already dead; it was his body but it wasn’t Femus. You had no choice; he would’ve understood. 

 

Ma looked at Larry, “Hilts will disappear completely if I don’t get him bathed in the river Styx. Hand me his other half, the part you found at the first bridge. 

 

“I need it to absorb what’s left then get it to Charon. Charon can save him if I can get the pieces to him in time. He’ll bathe the two parts in the river so they’ll join back together.”

 

Larry handed the rolled up celluloid cutout that had been used as a decoy to fool Charon and gave it to Ma. Ma then unrolled it and knelt over what was left of Hilts. If you hadn’t known where to look you wouldn’t have seen him; already the revolvers were gone and his body little more than an outline on the ground. Ma carefully spread the cutout over him. For a moment nothing happened, then the cutout’s eyes moved and I realized it had absorbed what was left of Hilts.

 

“I’ll become vulnerable again changing forms,” said Ma as she changed into a huge harpy eagle. “I’ve got to change form to get Hilts back to Charon. Spend the night here but leave before sunrise; you must be completely across the bridge before any direct sunlight shines on it. 

 

“Getting to the Styx Diner will be the hardest part of your journey and I was hoping you could’ve made it with Hilts. There’s enough wood nearby so you won’t freeze. And you’ve both passed the bridge’s selfless act test so it’s given you permission to cross.” Ma looked at Larry, “Take his motorcycle; he’d have wanted you to.”

 

Larry finished rolling Hilts back into a tube then placed him between Ma’s talons. 

Grasping the cylinder tightly, Ma hopped to the edge of the road then looked back, “Don’t let your fire go out, you’ll need it; whatever was controlling Femus may still be out there. The bridge will protect you from its side. Keep yourselves between it and your fire; and remember, you must be across the bridge before direct sunlight shines on it.”

 

Ma then spread her wings and dove into darkness.

 

Larry continued to stare for a few seconds more, “Let’s get that wood.”

 

Hauling wood from under the bridge, while at the same time being careful not to fall, was nerve-racking. Ma’s hut had been built at the edge of a cliff.  

 

Wood farther away from where the hut had burned was undamaged and as long as we were moving we were warm. We continued carrying armloads until a large pile had been built about fifty feet up on the road.

 

Larry pointed down the Ridge Route into darkness, “Ma said the bridge has given us permission to cross and will guard our backs but we’ve still got to protect ourselves from anything coming from that direction. I’ll get the fire started; you get the bikes. I can feel we’re being watched.”

 

In the time it took to tell me we were being watched he’d started a fire and I’d found my way to Hilts’ Road Warrior; thankfully its engine turned over on the first try. It wanted to get back to where it was warm as much as I did.

 

“Good,” said Larry when I returned. “Now get your bike.”

 

Where before there was no firelight to lead me to the bikes, there was now enough brightness to reach out and touch the edge of Femus. Femus lay between my bike and Larry; his huge skeleton was held together only by sinew and skin. Looking more like a monstrous unwrapped mummy than a man and knowing Ma said he’d once been good to travelers didn’t stop me from circling his body. Memories of him chasing us were hard to forget. 

 

I was in luck; the Wide Glide hesitated, stuttered a little, and then started on the second try. Larry’s firelight had grown large enough to reach out and paint a path back to the bridge; it gave me the confidence to stop and get a closer look at what was left of Femus. 

 

Femus had been visited. Too surprised to panic, I found myself getting off my bike to get a closer look. Near his head were bare footprints, close together as if kneeling. Whatever had been here had rolled Femus over in the time it had taken me to start and ride back with my bike. 

 

Every nightmare I’d ever had as a child walked with me to where I’d parked. Left in neutral and running, I had only to shift the Wide Glide into gear to leave. Nothing jumped from the shadows on my return trip to the fire.

 

“You stopped to look at Femus,” said Larry.

 

“You were right; something’s out there and it just turned over his body.”

 

Larry poked the fire causing sparks to jump upwards. Like a swarm of red hot fireflies they followed each other up into the night sky trying to reach the stars before they became too cold and gravity pulled them back down.

 

“I hate to say it but we’ve got to get what’s left of Femus, drag him back here and burn him,” said Larry. “He’d have wanted it. If we don’t whatever’s prowling around out there is going to try and reanimate him. The two of us shouldn’t have any trouble; he’s mostly just skin and bone.”

 

Larry’s argument to retrieve what remained of Femus made perfect sense and convinced everything but my legs it was a good idea. After we’d pulled what was left of the body to the fire and were in the process of lifting it into the flames I promised to listen to my legs in the future. Femus or what was left of him tried to sit up.

 

“All the way, leave nothing outside,” Larry said, swinging the huge but near skeletal arms into the fire. “All of him must be burned; nothing can be left to bring back to life, not a hand, a finger, not even a fingernail.”

 

Once in the flames the body began to shrink. An aura about an inch off its surface accelerated the burning; ten seconds later it was gone. Larry and I continued to stare, maybe because we were worried Femus would rise from the ashes like the Phoenix.

 

“You were lucky Ma and Hilts were around to protect you,” came at the end of a hollow laugh not far beyond our light’s circle of sight. “I may have to start dealing directly with you two meddlers myself.”

 

With my guitar pointed in the direction of the voice, I shouted back, “Show yourself,” at the same time an anemic blue line arched out from the guitar’s neck. 

 

“That’s it, that’s all you got;” laughed the voice again, “you gotta have the will as well as the skill and you don’t.

 

“You’re nothing but an over the hill studio musician that never had the gumption to do much of anything but counterpunch or open for headliners. You never could get it up when it counted; you’re nothing but a reaction to the action and that’s why you’ll never be more than just a behind the scenes gopher for whoever’s featured on the marquee.”

 

Smoke mixed with the smell of Femus drifted past my nose then thankfully downwind. Light from our fire lit up a radius of a hundred feet.

 

“He’s gone;” Larry said a minute later, “he would’ve made his move if he could’ve, instead he chose to mock us. We’ll be okay if we can make it through the night. I’m pretty sure we’ve enough wood but to be safe we’ll get more.”

 

Going back for more wood, away from the fire’s light at first seemed risky and yet the opposite proved true. Once we were beneath the bridge a sense of calm came across me as if we were being protected. Three large armloads of brush and small logs were carried back to the fire by both of us before Larry and I finally stopped and rested.

 

“Did you get the weird feeling we were being guarded by the bridge? Ma said we passed the bridge’s test; maybe it’s protecting us?”

 

Larry finished arranging two branches into a crude bench about ten feet upwind of the fire before answering, “That we’re protected is a benefit from it being hostile to anything that tries to cross it without its permission.”

 

Warmed only by a worn leather jacket and watch cap, Larry stood next to Hilts’ bike shivering; the cold wasn’t just affecting me. Surviving the night meant putting ourselves and our bikes between the fire and the bridge; when that was done we settled in to wait for morning. Conversation was kept simple considering the bizarre things that had happened in the last couple of days. Topics ranged from Larry’s ideas for future choppers to Larry’s ideas for future choppers. He even had an idea about building one around the Yamaha’s push rod V-twin and Suzuki’s 90 degree liter V-twin.

 

[page break]

 

 

“I never thought I’d hear myself say it,” said Larry, “but metric V-twins may be the future for choppers. The first in mind is Yamaha’s air cooled Star engine; I’m particularly interested in the Road Warrior model. It’s a push rod V-twin that can without stressing its 102 cubic inches be easily coaxed into giving out one hundred and fifty horsepower with almost that same number in foot pounds of torque. An Arizona bike builder I had a build-off against and later came to understand and respect would’ve called it a beast.

 

“The second, and at the other end of the spectrum, is Suzuki’s high torque hundred plus horsepower 90-degree one liter V-twin. Design a built to be ridden aluminum alloy ridged frame chopper around its Ducati-like engine and you’d be melding form with function. You’d be creating functional art. Neither the Yamaha nor the Suzuki powered bike would be stressed to perform all day at sportbike levels. 

 

“Sorry Charley, I mean Harley, but the art of building choppers will always be about the journey, the way, the Tao. Becoming root bound by staying in the same state of mind and using the same materials and same techniques will be the death knell of chopper building as art. Nineteenth Century artists knew this, moved outside the box, transcended the box, revolted against Traditionalists and became Impressionists. I’m especially interested in building a light tight chopper around Suzuki’s 90-degree one liter V-twin.”

 

Surprisingly we both avoided talking about tomorrow. Once I came close to describing the eight foot figure of light Pa had become; instead I asked Larry if he would ever build another bike using part of an airplane’s radial engine.

 

“Maybe,” answered Larry, “but I’d rather try something new, something that’s never been done before. Get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”

 

Agreeing to relieve Larry at midnight, I fell asleep only to be awakened just before sunrise by a tremor. Rippling down from the unseen other side of the bridge it shook the ground enough to rock our bikes.

 

“Was that an earthquake; and I thought you were supposed to wake me at midnight?”

 

“It didn’t feel like one;” said Larry through chattering teeth, “and I’m sorry about not waking you. But I started thinking about what’s happened since we left Ma n’ Pa’s. It kept my mind off how cold I was getting and so I decided to let you sleep. I started thinking how lucky we’ve been so far in our journey, with Aaron especially. I hate to think what would’ve happened had we taken him with us and he’d been able to join forces with Femus. He said his name was Aaron but he could’ve been anyone.”

 

“Or anything,” I added, “I can’t forget his eyes and teeth. My guess is whatever’s taken over the diner is sending out things like Aaron or even worse to terrorize the Borderlands. Andy being changed into Raggedy Man, the city Hilts built destroyed by electroshock and Femus tricked into becoming a zombie are more examples. Now that the jukebox isn’t playing more bad things are bound to happen. Only Ma n’ Pa are in any position to put a stop to it or at least foresee what will happen and warn us.”

 

Where water had once seeped across the surface of the road in the daytime the same places now glittered in ice; at this hour there’d be ice back to the second bridge. We were trapped here until morning’s sun had time to thaw the road.

 

“Ma can deal with whatever attacks her, Hilts too if he’s well.” said Larry. “Whatever’s controlling Aaron and once controlled Femus will know that and send Aaron to attack Pa. We’ve got to warn Pa. Ice or not, we’ve got to go back.”

 

“Can’t Charon stop Aaron?”

 

“If he’s not fooled;” Larry answered skeptically, “don’t forget Hilts was able to slip past him and he was easily lied to by the imp he chose for us to use as a guide.

 

“Charon’s quite powerful and able to deal with most enemies; but he doesn’t deal well with deception. And Aaron, if anything, is deceptive; he’d make the perfect politician, car salesman or card shark.”

 

Knowing Larry was probably right my thoughts pictured Aaron somehow slipping past Charon and attacking Pa. That vision, however, was quickly replaced with the vision of an eight foot figure of blue light burning Aaron to a crisp.

 

“Pa’s in no danger,” I said, proceeding to tell Larry what I’d seen back at their house by the fireplace. “Pa may be Ma’s creation, but if he is then he’s likely her most powerful. My belief however is they may be co-creators. Ma, or should I say Ma n’ Pa, may very well be being the Borderlands; their being and becoming are…”

 

“One,” said Larry, finishing my sentence, “and the same; they’re opposites joined together to complete the quantum circle. They’re the archetypal observer and observed, the Universal Field Theory, the Yin n’ Yang; they’re Ma n’ Pa.”

 

“Because?”

 

“Because,” continued Larry, “Fritjof Capra, author of “The Tao of Physics,” said all things in space-time are holographic projections of the ‘One’ observing us ‘being’ the manifestation and effect of ourselves. Capra’s book was the only one in the prison library that had all its pages, probably because it was rarely if ever checked out, probably because most inmates didn’t want to know that doing time would be, unless they forgave themselves, forever.”

 

“What were you in prison for?”

 

“Let’s just say I had a thing for banks.”

 

Larry spoke candidly of a history of armed robbery where heroin was his partner until getting arrested put an end to their relationship. Four years in prison studying mechanical engineering and philosophy proved to be more rewarding than crime, so much so that upon release he applied that knowledge to building a new life building choppers. Treating choppers as art, Larry chose to meld metal fabrication with sculpture. From the Taoists he learned that as in nature form must follow function and that to build a chopper that goes against that flow is to go against nature. On the practical side form without function made for a chopper that couldn’t corner.

 

We ended the night discussing Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave”. Was Plato the shadow cast upon the cave’s wall by Plato’s archetype or was he the archetype, or was Plato the ‘Light’ behind the archetype casting shadows upon the wall? Dawn reaching up to paint the highest peaks settled the discussion by showing us that without walls there’d be no shadows, no need of allegories. 

 

“We need,” said Larry facing east, “to leave now.”

 

“Why? The road’s still icy.”

 

“Because our get out of jail free card expires once direct sunlight hits the bridge. Our ticket, our permission to cross has a short shelf life; it ain’t a Twinkie.”

 

Leaving the warmth of the fire before dawn to load up our bikes meant freezing our hands and by the time we’d tied things down our fingers were numb. Ice painted in long strips and looking like thin ribbons of glass still crisscrossed the seamless pavement all the way to the bridge. Where the bridge started the ice ended and a heavy frost took over. 

 

Larry looked sadly over at the charred remains of what had once been his chopper then climbed aboard Hilts’ Road Warrior. The big Yamaha started on the first attempt; my Wide Glide took two tries. Soon both bikes were running and radiating enough heat to thaw our hands.

 

“Follow my tracks,” Larry called over his shoulder as we carefully rode out and unto the bridge. “Use your gears to slow down; make no sudden turns or stops.”

 

Giant trees rose up from the canyon below to hang their top branches over the guardrails. After a hundred yards we’d traded the frost for mist. Swirling to a height of eight feet, the mist allowed me to only see how far down the mountain sunlight had crept; Larry’s wool watch cap was the limit of my forward vision. Teasingly the mist revealed what was above but almost nothing in front. Larry’s keen eyesight kept us from hitting obstacles; most were the crushed remains of vehicles. Some were quite old; one in particular was a crumpled old farm truck dating back to the 1940s. 

 

[page break]

 

 

 “This old timer took quite a hit,” said Larry after parking his Road Warrior beside the truck then walking around and touching the hood. “Whatever smashed it was moving fast. There should be wreckage of the other vehicle but there’s nothing, not even pieces.”

 

“Maybe,” I countered, “the bridge crushed it like a walnut, ate the driver, then left the shell, I mean truck? The dent marks match the shape of the guardrails.”

 

With an image of both guardrails coming together and smashing us like clapping hands Larry and I got moving again; hopefully the end wasn’t far ahead. Dawn’s glow was spreading further down the mountain reminding us it wouldn’t be long before direct sunlight touched the bridge.

 

“Stop,” said Larry as softly as possible and at the same time he rolled to a standstill. “It’s huge, has twelve legs and six heads and it’s just beyond the end of the bridge. It’s heard us but I don’t think it’s seen us.”

 

Rolling up beside him moments later and looking in the direction he was pointing, I found myself again confirming he had superior eyesight, “I can barely see its outline,” I said, peering as hard as I could into a curtain of gray. 

 

“If you can barely see it, it most likely can barely see you. If it can see anything it’s only our outlines. The road begins just beyond where it’s standing then slopes down hill.”

 

“If it can barely see us why isn’t it willing to come out onto the bridge?”

 

“It’s smart enough to know,” continued Larry, “it’ll end up like that crumpled truck we passed if it comes onto the bridge without permission. My guess is it’s been sent here to prevent us from getting off until the touch of direct sunlight triggers the bridge into smashing us. Somehow we’ve got to get it to come over here then get off before it can. If the bridge reacts too fast, like a gag or cough reflex, we’ll also be squashed between the guardrails. Those pearl colored clouds over the mountains are a warning direct morning light is only about a minute away from touching the top span.” 

 

Riding forward made the monster turn. It was as Larry described; it was Scylla with twelve legs and six heads. Somehow it had come out of Homer’s Odyssey and into the Borderlands. The Greek hero Odysseus had to choose between being eaten or squashed, so did we. From behind my back I pulled my guitar around and began to play. Three of its heads looked over and bellowed. As a musician I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or a complaint; I’ve been booed but never bellowed at before.

 

“Get ready, it’s coming and not for your autograph.” 

 

The bridge shuddered ready to strike but held back only because it still honored our right of passage. Once direct sunlight touched it, however, all bets were off; its railings would crash together.

 

When the monster broke through the mist Larry roared off and onto the road. It was now completely on the bridge but had misjudged our position by a few feet giving me enough time to flip my guitar around to my back, release the Wide Glide’s clutch and at the same time hear Larry’s warning shout.

 

“Get off the bridge now!”

 

Suddenly crowned with direct sunlight the bridge became the crushing rocks the Greek poet Homer had written about in the Odyssey. Odysseus had time to row his ship out of danger; I had none. 

 

“Hurry!” yelled Larry.

 

Scylla was fast, my bike faster, but not fast enough to clear the bridge. I was nearly off when the guardrails came together like a thunderclap, flattening the Wide Glide from the back seat to the tail light. Scylla wasn’t as lucky. Parts of the monster squirted past me, on me and up the road. I now understood what ‘skin-of-your-teeth’ meant.

 

We were both silent for nearly a minute before Larry said, “I’ve got to believe luck is still with us. Your bike was crushed but you’re unharmed and I can see a column of mist a few miles ahead. My guess is it’s rising from a hot spring. We could both use a bath, especially you.”

 

Except for a huge stain soaking into its entry span the bridge looked normal. Larry was right in saying we’d been lucky. Where Odysseus had the goddess Circe to thank for finding a way past the crushing rocks, we had Ma to thank. Had Ma, disguised as troll, not gotten us to commit to a selfless act we’d be paste. None of Scylla’s body parts could be seen but for the few on the road. Parts left on the bridge had disappeared.

 

“If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I’d say the bridge absorbs, rather eats whatever it crushes.”

 

“It doesn’t help to think too long about what’s happened;” said Larry, interrupting my spoken thoughts, “count your blessings and focus on the future. From now on we must assume Ma n’ Pa aren’t coming to our rescue; we can’t expect help from anyone, certainly not Hilts. We’re on our own until we reach the fourth and final bridge.”

 

“What about Andy?”

 

“We can’t count on Andy either,” continued Larry. “The only help we’ll be getting is from Charon and that’s only if we make it to the river Styx.”

 

 

 “To ride with Larry is like a dream…for anyone.”   __Mondo Pouras

 

Watch for the NEXT CHAPTER!