An R&R to Die For
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Part 1
After fourteen months in Viet Nam, my ass lifted off the runway of the world's busiest airport, Tan Son Nhut. That airport is in Saigon and, here in the late summer of 1968, Pan American Airlines flies war-weary G.I.s like myself to the Rest and Recuperation destinations of our choice for the sum of one US dollar.
Like the other two hundred or so squids, grunts, propellor heads and gyrenes on board the flight, I was burnt out on the killing and the snakes and the bugs and the daily lottery that determined who might be going home one day.
It was my own fault, of course. I'd volunteered, and I'd even extended my stay an additional six months. Why not? No one is waiting for me, as Joanie pointed out in that letter about four months ago. I had expected it; she's a nice girl, wholesome, bright, fun, attractive and helpful, but uninspired. Basically, we made good friends but there were no sparks, at least not like there were with her new friend Jody, who appears to have lit a fire in her crotch.
Oh, she didn't say that. She has more class than that. Instead, she talked about how much I'd like Jody, what a sterling fellow he is, how perfectly he understands her, and then she asked 'Why didn't you ever make love to me, Harry?'
Well, maybe I read between the lines. But I was tired, and conclusion jumping to the easiest answers comes naturally to me, so I sent back a 'it's been nice to know you, and I hope you'll be happy' sort of reply. End of Joanie.
I have jungle rot and a crudely patched hole in my left abdomen to show for my time in the 'nam. An added incentive to get out of the country is the knowledge that the VC and NVA think enough of me to offer $10,000 US for my US Marine scalp. My sniping skills appear to have pissed them off. All in all, I decided that sunshine and salt water and carousing would be just the ticket to lift my increasingly dismal, cynical spirits. The prospect of getting laid without having to worry about getting my throat slit appealed to me.
I know that five days of R&R don't allow a long time for chivalrous and courtly wooing of local ladies. I know that in all but Perth and Sydney, those time-wasting rituals can be abbreviated for a small sum. In Perth and Sydney all a G.I. has to do is say 'Hi, Miss.' Then eyes flash, a big grin appears, and she says 'Oh, are you a Yank?' And that's it. The Yank is certain that his time and company are valued, and that he'll have a terrific time with a round-eye. We Yanks are popular, for some reason.
I could have gone to either one of those cities, or Vung Tau, or Tokyo, or Hong Kong, or Singapore, or Kuala Lumpur, or even that city whose name says it all, Bangkok. But I chose to go to Penang. It drew me; maybe its name alone offered mystery and intrigue, or maybe something else drew me. Whatever the reason, that's where I went, an island in the Malacca Straits off the northwestern shore of Malaysia.
After landing at Kuala Lumpur and taking the long bus ride to Penang - yes it's an island, but there's a LONG bridge - the planeful of G.I.s went into a building so nondescript that I don't even have the foggiest memory of how it looks. An officer in civilian attire welcomed and 'inbriefed' us. We learned how to behave in a socially correct manner, we learned the going prices for all sorts of local goods and personal services, we learned the official Malaysian Dollar / US dollar exchange rate (3:1), and we were given a list of places to stay away from, as those places were known to be unhealthy to a G.I.'s pocketbook, legal standing and / or health.
Everyone defies government edict about the 'official' language and speaks English. I never heard, even in shops between natives, any tongue other than English. Penang is reputed to be both culturally and racially the most cosmopolitan and diverse place on the planet. The city sparkles with Cambodians, Thais, Filipinos, Chinese, Danes, Koreans, Japanese, Melanesians, Polynesians, Malays, Indians, various sorts of Arabs, Indonesians, Russians, Brits, and probably Eskimos and Tierra del Fuegans. Pirates, smugglers and entrepreneurs rub shoulders side by side in the high-energy market places of Georgetown, the principal city on Penang.
And they all speak, bargain, curse and cajole in English.
After our obligatory inbriefing, the two hundred of us dispersed to find hotels. I checked into the Universal Hotel, a beautiful high-rise of marble and mahogany. In my twelfth floor room I got out of my khakis and showered, shaved and otherwise cleaned up, then donned pale tan Bermuda shorts, Jesus boots, and a khaki-colored short-sleeve shirt that I hoped would not brand me as a tourist. Then I ventured forth.
I had already determined that the two hundred of us would make a significant impact on the availability of short-order company in the local districts, so, not feeling like jockeying for favor, I stepped off the nearest corner onto a bus in search of less commonly found entertainment. I wanted to breathe and stretch out my horizons a bit before settling in for the night with whatever lady I could make arrangements. Whether I would find such a lady - well, the hunt is more interesting where the game is less plentiful.
The bus took me north along highway 6. I watched as the near jungle alongside the highway, a road really, passed. Papayas, mangos, star fruit and other types of fruit grow wild year 'round everywhere, and is picked for free by roadside fruit vendors whose only expenses are the glass jars they use to display their sliced wares, and their pedal-powered display carts. Tall palm trees grow coconuts and betel, for which the island was named. Many people have black teeth in Penang, I noticed.
The highway meandered along the coastline, as did the sedately moving bus. By midafternoon I stepped off at a narrow spot in the highway where I judged the beach to be close by. Alone except for the slowly drifting exhaust plume of the departed bus and an old car stopped on the shoulder a hundred yards or so up the highway, I turned and broke jungle-like brush toward the coast.
Less than a half hour later I came out onto a beach so white it made me squint. I looked left: the white strip seemed to stretch to the horizon, where a dim outline of trees marked the western end of this beach cove. To the right a similar view. In neither direction did I see a single soul. Far at sea two sets of sails shimmered against the blue of the sky or ocean, I couldn't tell which. I barely hesitated, then took off walking to the right. Never had I seen a beach so lovely and so vacant.
A few minutes later a building began to form out of the distant heat. As I approached I saw that it sat out over the barely undulating surf. An ancient boat that I inexpertly guessed was a sampan had been tied up to the building. A couple dozen stilts held the building about ten feet above the water. A wooden walkway, or perhaps a gangplank, connected the building to the beach. A circle of thatch unbrellas covered four rude tables, around which various hand-crafted sitting furnitures indicated the purpose of those tables. I smiled when the smells hit my nostrils. A restaurant!
Suddenly famished, I walked over to an empty table. Two other tables hosted a half-dozen people, none of whom had blue eyes or fair skin. I guessed they were the crew of the sampan, and they ate and talked and drank without even glancing my way.
A grizzled, white-bearded and maned gentleman came out to welcome me. He wiped his thick and gnarled hands on the front of a stained white apron.
"What do ye want?" he asked in a friendly, eye-twinkling sort of way when he reached my table. His eyes gleamed with a blue that matched the nearby Straits of Malacca, and his smile revealed startlingly white teeth.
"Food," I answered in the same abbreviated manner, with a similar smile. "And beer. Cold, if that's possible."
"Cold, eh?" He laughed. "Aye, then cold as a squiddie's arse it'll be! Would ye care to see our bill of fare?"
Not sure I'd understood his simile, I let it pass. "No. I'll have whatever you're especially proud of here." I'd never regretted ordering food that way, anywhere in the world.
"Ye'd best have a hunger, then." He laughed even more jovially and went back into the building.
I leaned forward to take advantage of the shade of the thatched umbrella over the table, and looked the building over more closely. Made of plain planks nailed vertically to some supporting structure beneath, the walls served to support the thatched roof rather than keep weather, and I supposed smaller animal life, out. Windows were simple prop-up shutters. I saw no glass.
My stomach growled in anticipation.
A young tray-carrying lady came from the building and swayed in my direction. Wrapped in iridescent green, she scintillated. Her hair amazed me - burnished coppery red with hints of both blond and black, loosely hung in long, heat-be-damned coils - and I marveled at her five-foot tall loveliness. When she arrived at my table I saw that she couldn't have been more than twelve. Her garb draped no feminine curves, but that didn't detract from the breathtaking purity of her features. The words 'beautiful child' popped into my head.
"Ale and kebab," she smiled, shuffling a large wooden platter of the described food in front of me. Next she placed a tankard - honest to God, a pewter tankard - next to my right hand. I lifted it and gulped. Piss-warm. I chugged it anyway, the flavor earthy with grain and rough brewing. I loved it, having developed a taste for beers with character, which this one certainly had.
"I'd best bring ye another," she said. Her eyes contained curiosity, their deep bottle green and windowed frankness dredging something nice up from the wastes of my past. I had no idea why, but I felt like this child and I'd met before.
She turned to go.
"Wait," I asked. She turned. "What is kebab?"
She pointed at one of the bamboo skewers. "Goat, onions, crimson nightshade berries, and spicy peppers. Will these dozen do ye 'til yer crabs and rice are fully prepared?"
"If they don't, can you bring more?"
She grinned. "Aye." She paused. "Are ye a sailor like these gentlemen?" She gestured to the six.
"A soldier," I said, not wanting to complicate the explanation. "From the United States." I smiled back at her.
Her forehead wrinkled in thought. "United States?" She turned toward the building. "Papa! He says he is from the United States!"
"Where be that?" I heard from inside, his voice bellowing. I glanced at the half dozen crew nearby. They showed little curiosity.
Amazed to find someone who hadn't heard of my country, I pointed east. "About ten thousand miles there," I explained. I glanced around. The crew eyed each other, then one of them shrugged. Another tapped his temple with one finger, and they all chuckled. They went back to eating.
"That be very far," the girl observed, a look of doubt on her face. "How do ye come to be here, then?"
I pointed this time to the brush that lined the beach. "I walked through that brush, then down the beach until I found you."
"What did he say?" I heard again from inside.
"He says he came through the trees, Papa, and that is how he found us."
"Oh." A pause. "OHHH! Well then that's a fine kettle, right?"
He came out and sat at my table. "Hie thine skinny shanks to the kitchen, datter. Me'n Soldier Boy need talkin'." His smile disarmed the words. My curiosity, by this time, had reached new highs. Who were these people who hadn't heard of the United States, but spoke the language in a stilted, archaic British Empire manner? Had they just emerged from some cave?
After his daughter cast a disappointed pout in my direction and departed, her father started.
"We feed traders and fishers who stop in, like those gents there," he gestured. "Barter a bit too, if I can make a penny, and for fare to feed the likes 'a these gents. But long as we been here, no one ever came out of the bush." He looked me over. "And I never saw one clad in such a fool getup. Why, a man'd crisp right up from the sun in no time at all, and if he stayed in the bush he'd be et by snakes and bugs."
"No one ever comes here except by boat?" I asked, amazed. But I looked around, and again noticed that the sole occupants of the beach, for as far as I could see, were all seated right there.
He laughed and pointed toward the trees. "Through that? Not bleedin' likely, mate!" He wiped spittle from his beard and leaned closer. "Now tell me really, where be ye from, with those round-soundin' ways o' speakin'?"
"I'm staying in Georgetown -" I started.
He held up his hand. "If ye don't want to say, then just tell me to mind my own bleedin' business," he said. "I take no offense to a man keepin' 'is own counsel."
"I don't mind telling you," I continued, a bit miffed at being interrupted and disbelieved. "I'm staying in Georgetown, and I'm from the United States."
For a moment the old gent's eyes examined me. Then he turned to his other customers, who by that time had taken a mild interest in the conversation. "Any of ye gents heard of a Georgetown or the United States?"
Six heads shook side to side.
"How 'bout any of ye been ten thousand miles t'the east?"
Again, six heads shaking. "Too far," one of them said. "A body'd sail right off the edge."
"Nae," another said. "The serpents 'd eat 'em, if the crew didn't mutiny first."
Not sure whether I was being teased, I looked from face to face. I saw no evidence of humor. Curiosity showed, though. That made me nervous. I took a moment to look around more closely: we were still alone on the beach. Where was the beach crowd? Three or four vessels could be seen at sea, their sails tiny feathers against the soft blue. Over my head the clear sky showed no evidence of the passage of high-altitude aircraft. I listened for highway sounds, but heard none.
The Straits of Malacca, I had heard, is one of the busiest waterways in the world. Why couldn't I see a single cargo vessel out there?
The hairs on the back of my neck stood. Maybe - those sails - maybe I saw three or four of them, I thought. A shiver ran through me. But the whole atmosphere was benign and non-menacing, so I told myself to relax. There had to be some explanation that I had overlooked.
The daughter emerged from the building with more food. The wooden platter, not much more than a short dished-out plank, steamed with a pile of whole crabs and at least a pound of some type of rice dish. "Yer luncheon, Soldier," she announced. "D'ye think ye can put yerself around all this, then?"
The food looked terrific, and for a moment or two I forgot my puzzling situation. "Certainly, if it's as good as it looks," I answered.
"We shall see," she said, then she giggled in the way of twelve-year olds world wide. Watching her turn and run back into the building, I smiled; I hadn't heard that sort of simple laugh for some time. Then I ate.
* * *
When I'd polished off the last of my crabs and savory rice, which contained small bits of whatever animal life lived in the nearby waters, the grizzled gentleman returned to my table and sat. He handed me another tankard of warm beer.
"That'll be thrupp'nce, me bucko. Or barter."
I smiled. How basic this gentleman's business seemed! But I didn't have any thruppence, whatever that was, so that left barter. "How about I trade these sandals for my supper? And if that's all right, I'll be back for supper again tomorrow and bring another pair for your daughter."
He looked at my sandals. I took one off and handed it to him. He pulled at the straps, looked at the stitching, pried at the tire tread soles. "I ain' seen likes 'o this, ever. Why, they look like they'd outlast the foot!" He stuck out his hand. "Done, and glad of it. Ye keep 'em until tomorrow. Ye'll need 'em to walk out to wherever ye come from."
I watched the crew of the sampan leave, moving aboard their vessel and casting off with a minimum of bother. Only then did I see the other craft, a small boat with a short mast, bobbing on her mooring behind where the sampan had been. I asked the gentleman whose that was.
"Me datter and I made 'er," he boasted. "We been to Melaka and Sincapur, twice each. She's a nice enough boat."
I walked down to the water's edge and examined it. About fifteen feet long, it appeared to be little more than an ax-carved hollowed log with a stout limb stepped as a mast, and a smaller log attached as an outrigger with two more stout limbs. As I looked it over his daughter emerged from the restaurant building.
"D'ye fancy t' barter for a sail, Mister Soldier?" she asked, an impish smile on her face.
I shook my head. "No. But I'm impressed. Did you and your father really build that and sail it to Malacca and Singapore?"
"Aye, we did that," she boasted. "Twice. I got me wrap in Sincapur, and more like it. Fadder got trousers and canvas an' tools."
I looked at her. "Is it safe?"
She giggled at my stupid question. "Here I am, am I not?"
I looked back at the boat. It didn't seem like something I'd put any of my family in, especially for voyages of those distances. But I got the impression that these two lived their lives a little closer to the edge than I would like, in their places.
"Yes you are. And since you are, put your foot alongside mine," I suggested. "I'll bring you some new sandals tomorrow, if I can figure out what size you might wear."
She liked that.
* * *
The sun, an orange coal in the western sky, sank visibly toward the horizon. I walked eastward up the beach, feeling the heat from the setting sun on my back. At one point I turned to look back toward the restaurant where I'd just eaten, but some trick of atmosphere had erased it from the landscape, leaving only beach, sea and lush vegetation. I looked around. I looked up. I looked out to sea. I saw no hint of civilization. The date could have been any date in a million-year continuum. So, when I reflected upon it, the grizzled gentleman relating tales over supper at a restaurant that disappears in the rays of the setting sun did not inspire confidence.
My neck hairs stood again, but I walked on.
A spit of sand appeared ahead, a finger pointing out into the straits. I looked out toward where I imagined the tip would be. Something moved out there.
I walked to the spit, then turned and followed it out to sea. On both sides the ocean lapped gently, caressing the edges of the sandy path with small ripples and wavelets so clear that it took imagination to see any blue at all in the water. Ahead of me the size of the moving shape grew.
Suspicion began to dawn upon me. It couldn't be, I thought. But as I approached I saw that my suspicion had borne out. She turned at my approach.
"Hello, Soldier from the United States." She offered her hand. "Ye haven't changed a whit. Why, yer even in t' same clothes!"
Before me stood five and a half feet of the most lovely apparition my dreams had ever conjured up. Red, red hair with hints of blond and black cascaded in long wet hanks. Her shift, which looked like something she might have worn to bed, had been soaked and draped her lushly female curves like some knee-length wet tee shirt. An orange overstuffed life preserver around her neck hid her breasts. Her matching green eyes flickered with friendly sparkles in the last rays of the sinking sun.
No doubt about it, this girl was another daughter of the restaurant owner. She had the same features as her younger sister, and I guessed her age at about nineteen.
Taking her offered hand I stepped closer. She smelled of wild fruit, of sweet spices and kelp, of life. No thought of caution flickered in my numbed judgement; again I had that strong sense of having met her before.
"Hello," I managed through my soaring desire. "How did you know I'm from the United States?"
"Ye said so," she explained, wrinkling her brow in puzzlement.
For the briefest of moments I puzzled my own question. She couldn't possibly have gotten here ahead of me without my seeing her. She had to have been here the whole time. So how did she know?
However, her provocative nearness blunted my curiosity. I stepped closer, thinking her friendly greeting boded well for the rest of the evening.
She put paid to that idea. Stepping back, she scolded me gently. "That be close enough, sir. I might be the bleedin' innkeeper's datter, but I'm nae the tavern's sportin' wench."
I hastily stepped back myself, not wanting to give her cause to put her guard up. "Shall we go back to your father's inn and sit?" I asked, casting about for any way to stay in her company. "You're wet. You could get dry clothing there."
But she shook her fiery locks. "Nay. It be not there now."
Not very quick on the meaning of that, I kept at trying to remain in her presence. "Shall I stay, then? We can visit."
"A visit would be fine," she agreed.
We sat on the sand at the end of the spit and watched night fall across the Straits of Malacca. The stars stabbed our eyes with the hard brilliance that can only be seen in vast deserts and far at sea, thousands of miles away from the light pollution of civilization.
"My name is Harry," I told her.
"And I be Molly," she smiled. Her wide grin thrilled me. Suddenly I knew where I'd seen her before.
"You have come from my dreams, Molly," I blurted out without a moment's thought.
Her brow furrowed. "Nae, I be real enough. And don' think yer sweet blather will gain ye a tumble, whether I be dream or no."
"How long have you been here, Molly?"
She looked back out to sea, treating me with her perfect profile. She swept an arm at our surroundings. "I be here now. There be no long nor short. There only be now."
"When did you arrive?" I asked, not understanding what she meant.
She looked back at me. "Yer tongue is an artless one, but clear fer all that. I arrived now, in the year of our Lord 1529, in the month of May, I think. I am here until the credentials committee and the admissions group decide whether I be dead or no, and if yes, whither to hades or Heaven I be bound."
"Dead?" I asked, shocked so stupid that I had no idea of what to be most shocked about.
"Aye," she said, her gaze solemn. "Or no, dependin'." She patted the life preserver. "This saved me. Just now a tempest like I've never seen swept away me fadder's restaurant, and I was usin' this floater ye gifted me fer a pillow whilst asleep therein. Out to sea we goes, inn an' all, me fadder screaming for me to swim, and I goes out through the roof, which was fallin' off. I don' know where be fadder. Next I know here I be, washed up here an' wetter'n a fish an' settin' an' waitin'. Admissions and Credentials is all a-tizzy, sayin' I weren't s'posed to have such a thing as this floater, and it's upset their plans, and all that. They don' know what to do 'bout it."
"Plans? What plans?" I looked out to sea. I saw no signs of a storm.
Her gaze swept back out to sea again. "I don' know. But I must wait for them to decide."
At exactly that instant I knew that she believed everything she'd told me. I've never believed in ghosts, or time travel, or a waiting room between Heaven and hell, but there I was neck deep in all three, according to her. But according to me, I was sitting there with the girl who'd come and gone through my dreams all my short adult life.
To hell with all the superstitions and time travel and whatever else she thinks is going on, I decided. To hell with worrying about which of us is crazy. I'm going to enjoy her company as long as I can. I gave up trying to find out more about her and let myself just enjoy her nearness.
I took her hand. It felt warm enough, alive enough. Her eyes smiled at me, and my heart stumbled and fell.
"My God, but you're beautiful, Molly."
She blushed at my words, casting her eyes downward and smiling wider. "Go on wi' ye," she said quietly. "Yer just fetched by my soppin' shift."
"No, I meant it when I said you've come from my dreams."
Her hand squeezed mine. "And p'rhaps yer after a bit, eh?"
I grinned. "That's what I thought, a few hours ago. Now I just want to sit here with you and - - and imagine."
Our eyes engaged for a few seconds. I felt as though she were measuring something inside me. "I believe ye," she finally said. Her demeanor softened into sadness. "Have ye seen me fadder?"
I slowly shook my head. "No, Molly. Not in the last hour. Nor your little sister."
Tears brimmed. "Sister? I have no sister."
Once more her words stunned me. "No sister?"
"Nae," she sobbed. "Ne'er." She shook her head, and her tears came. I put an arm around her shoulder, and she cried on mine.
I awoke in the humid dead of the night. She had gone; no trace existed. I rose from the sand and followed my footprints back up the spit to the main beach. Perhaps halfway there it struck me as odd that I did not see her footprints. Mine were the only ones. I slowed and looked more closely. My prints were alone in the sand. No other prints of any species showed.
She probably walked back in the water's edge, I thought. Otherwise I'd see tracks. I paused, considering that, then turned and walked back to where I'd awakened. I looked about. We'd spent the evening about here, I thought. We'd walked all over. Falling to my knees I looked at the mishmash of footprints in the sand.
Not even bird, bug or crab tracks, and most disturbingly of all, no Molly tracks. All mine.
Well, I thought. What did I expect? I'd just spent the finest evening of my life sitting in the sand and dangling my feet in the tepid, languid surf of the Straits of Malacca, holding the hand of a beautiful grieving ghost. Or something. Why should I expect to see ghost tracks?
Even as I began to buy into her story, I despaired over the uncertainty of seeing her again.
End of part
one
Part 2
Aching over the loss of the girl of my dreams and muttering prayers that she hadn't been taken away by those committees she mentioned, I walked back down the beach. The moon, high in the sky, made finding my footprints easy. Uneasy that no other footprints marred the sand, I reached the restaurant's location, but found no restaurant. A half-dozen broken pilings stuck up out of the sand like broken teeth, but other evidence of its existence had vanished.
Somehow that didn't surprise me.
My footprints continued to guide me back along the beach to where I'd exited the tree line. Worrying about snakes, I worked my way back through the shrubbery, doing my best to follow the same route I'd taken to get to the beach. I recognized tree groupings and certain plants that I'd passed on the way in, and used those as my landmarks to take me back to Highway 6. Finally I reached the edge of the treeline where it bordered the highway. I looked out; there was little traffic at that early hour, with the sun still a half-hour or so from rising.
On a whim I re-entered the forest a few yards, then walked to my left about two hundred feet. Again I stepped to the edge of the forest and looked out.
I stepped back quickly. There was no highway; instead, a grassy track perhaps a hundred yards wide had taken its place. Odd vehicles whispered by in both directions, stacked in layers above each other. None of them touched the ground.
I retraced my steps to where I'd first come into the forest, then walked a couple hundred feet further. I stepped to the edge and peeked out carefully.
A work crew toiled at road grading there. Old trucks and road equipment huffed and grumbled at their chores. Fifteen or so men directed the efforts of all this equipment, which appeared to be working to improve Highway 6. I checked my location carefully, then stepped out.
The crew ignored me. I watched for a moment or two; I saw that one grader appeared to be relatively new. I walked over to a fellow who at that moment was leaning on his shovel.
"Hello," I said. "Improving the highway?"
He spit a stream of red betel-stained saliva into the dirt, then smiled. Black, broken teeth gleamed. "Yes. We're improving it from not existing at all."
I laughed at his humor. I introduced myself and he shook my hand, introducing himself as Kouotang Wong. I pointed to the obviously new road grader. "That looks new."
"Had it less than two weeks," he told me, shaking his head. "Already blew two hydraulic hoses. It's parked until we get the new ones."
"Mind if I take a closer look at it?" I asked. "I've never seen one up close."
"Sure." He picked up his shovel and accompanied me over to the deadlined grader. I looked it over, hoping to find a data plate, from which I could get a date. Sure enough, riveted to the dash the data plate identified the manufacturer - Caterpillar - and a manufacture date - March of 1947.
If I hadn't already suspected that I was wandering around in some sort of time tunnel, I'd probably have just fainted. But I kept a straight face, visited a few minutes longer, told Mister Wong that I hoped we'd meet again, then re-entered the forest.
I carefully found my way back to the spot where I'd originally entered the forest. Stepping out, I saw that I was back in 1968, and that traffic had increased slightly. I stuck out my thumb.
* * *
To say my mind was a muddle of confusion would be understatement. Aside from worrying that I would never see Molly again, I worried that I couldn't figure out just what I'd stumbled into. Every time I thought I'd pieced it together, a personal observation seemed to defeat my solution.
I resolved to write the whole experience down.
Back at the hotel, I noticed that someone had thoughtfully provided a marine supply shop directly across the street. Skipping the obvious question about why there instead of at the coast or near a marina, I went inside to purchase two bright orange life vests. If I have figured correctly, Molly and her father will need them.
A young woman of about nineteen greeted me. As grubby as I appeared after a night on the beach, she smiled. More than pretty enough to get a return smile out of me, I thought she looked familiar. I told her what I wanted and tried not to stare.
"Daddy," she called out over her shoulder, "there's a young man here to buy life vests." Her smile widened, as did her eyes.
A man in his early forties came in from the back of the store. He also looked familiar, with blue eyes and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. For a moment he looked at me, recognition in his eyes. Then his eyes shifted away. "I have just what you need, Harry," he said before I explained exactly what I'd come for. He took me over to a shelf where coincidentally two vests of exactly the right type were already bagged and tagged for sale.
"How did you know my name is Harry?" I asked as I verified that the vests were just what I'd come for.
"Oh," he stammered. Then he brightened. "Your dogtags. One is hanging out between your shirt buttons."
I looked down, and sure enough. I looked back at him. Our eyes locked, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck once again. "You have good eyes," I said. "Reading that from fifteen feet is impressive."
He smiled. "Use those life vests wisely," he advised. "Make sure whoever you give them to knows exactly how to put them on and when."
More neck hair dances. I looked at him again, this time more closely. Damn, he looked familiar! "I will," I promised. I returned to the counter, where I paid his pretty daughter for the vests, then walked to the door.
"Harry," I heard from the girl's father.
I turned. "Yes?"
"May I give you some advice?"
At least he asks, I thought. "Sure."
"Don't wait for fate to decide what lies ahead for you."
My neck hairs fairly pranced. "Fate?"
He nodded. "Fate. Or whatever, uh, entity decides what comes next. Don't wait for it. Don't depend on it. Take your destiny by the hand and do what you must to ensure it succeeds."
The pieces fell into place. "Do you have a wife named Molly, Sir?" I asked.
He smiled and I recognized him. "Yes. And a daughter too. Good luck this evening," is all he said, then disappeared into the back of the store again.
Weak kneed with my discovery, I looked back at his daughter. She looked at me with large eyes, eyes of bottle green, awe and recognition on her face. "My God, but you're beautiful, Molly," I said as I had to her mother.
She blushed and smiled. "Go on wi' ye," she mumbled, then giggled.
I grinned. "I see you've heard the story," I guessed.
"Aye. Now get yerself busy and make it come true. Otherwise I won't be here, Daddy-O."
I left the store, convinced I'd seen part of my own future. All I have to do now is bring it about.
* * *The hotel has a typewriter they'll loan me for only two US dollars a day. So here I am, writing it all down. If I don't get back to finish the story, here's what I plan:
1. Buy Molly a pair of sandals. No, I'll buy her and her father several pair. And while I'm at it, I'd better get Molly of the Spit some clothing. She certainly can't walk out in that damp, skimpy shift, nice as it is!
2. Return to the restaurant and give Molly and her father a life preserver, show them how to use them, and make them promise me that they'll use them in any storms or whenever they go out in the boat.
3. Then I will walk seven years up the beach in the evening, and if Molly is there at that spit of sand, I will offer this girl from my dreams new clothing and my hand so that if she is willing, I can lead her into that 1947 work crew's area. To hell with those committees and their rules. They'll have to stop us, if they can decide to do that.
4. We'll catch a ride back to Georgetown, where we will open a marine supply store at the spot where it exists today. And then I'll do my damnedest to keep this girl, and if she agrees, we'll make a few babies and wait for me to arrive in 1968.
Now, since it's barely mid-morning and I'm starved, I'm going to have breakfast, shop for those sandals and clothing, and take a short nap before going back to the beach.
I wonder if I'll actually be able to sleep.
Closing report (preliminary draft)
Case # 68-48001 (Specialist Fifth Class Harold Barton, RA 198-65-125)
Agent in Charge: Kenneth P. Simon
Summary: Agents tailing Sp5 Barton report that when he stepped off the bus in the same place he had the previous afternoon (see his typewritten record, recovered from the hotel and attached above), he walked into the thick vegetation beside the road and disappeared. Three agents searched for him in the heavy growth, but found nothing. Instead, they found a well-used path that led them out onto Ferringgi Beach as it had the previous day. The beach was densely populated with sun bathers and swimmers, again in the same manner as the previous day, and none of them admitted seeing Sp5 Barton. The agents are unable to verify any of Sp5 Barton's story that deal with events other than those directly observable in the near present, except that they have confirmed that a Mr. Kuoutang Wong did work for a construction company building highways for Penang from 1946 until 1952, when the company dissolved. His current whereabouts are unknown, but are the subject of much investigation.
The life preserver found in March of 1948 by a road crew while building Highway 6 still had the manufacturer's tag in it, which stated that it had been manufactured in 1967 by a company that did not exist prior to 1962, with materials that did not exist until the late '50's. Sp5 Barton's story would indicate that he gave that preserver to twelve-year old Molly Danforth in the year 1522, who then was saved by it in 1529. Sp5 Barton appears to have intentionally meant for that preserver to be found, along with his identification tags and military identification card, inasmuch as he left all three items hanging from a low branch of a tree as he and Miss Danforth, probably hand in hand, exited the forested area. That tree was directly in the path of the crew making the road, who of course found it in 1948. His purpose in leaving those artifacts behind is unclear, although he must certainly have expected that we'd learn of them and investigate.
Conclusions:
a. Trans-temporal movement is possible. The evidence provided by Sp5 Barton is irrefutable, and the owners of Ferrenggi Marine Supply appear to be living proof.
b. While the bulk of Sp5 Barton's story strains credulity, it nonetheless is difficult to logically reject and should therefore be accepted as written until evidence to the contrary is produced.
c. The proprietors of Ferrenggi Marine Supply appear to be Sp5 Barton and his (now) wife Molly. Their two children live there with them. The proprietor, probably Sp5 Barton, freely gave us hair and blood samples for use in helping identify him. We have retained those in cryogenic suspension pending advancements in biochemical sciences which may someday permit us to minutely compare those with the samples taken from Sp5 Barton in Saigon before he left for R&R. We have asked that this sort of research receive dramatic increases in federal research grants in order to help us make conclusive identification. Absolute proof will produce world-changing facts.
d. The personal wealth of the Barton family is massive (see estimate of assets, attached). That is likely the result of Sp5 Barton taking 'gambles' on the outcomes of the market or sporting events of which he already knew the outcomes.
e. Records of the Portugese shipping industry reveal that an Irish gentleman and his young daughter left Viana do Castelo for the east coast of Africa and eventually the East Indies in the spring of 1516, carried as passengers on the vessel Nossa Senhora da Boa Viagem, bound for Goa and Singapore. Their names were Clyde and Molly Danforth. According to the manifest, the two passengers were put ashore at their request on the northern beaches of an island about three hundred miles NW of Molucca (Malacca), along with the gentleman's consignment of tools and other baggage. The described location of that island matches closely the location of Penang. No further records on the Danforths have been located. Based on this, it is likely that the current Mrs. Molly Barton is the former Miss Molly Danforth, born approximately 1510.
f. Sp5 Barton probably
chose to return to the year 1947 in order to avoid having
to bring his future bride back to a present which would include his
having to return
to Viet Nam with a bounty on his head, and leave her behind. Also, his
ability to
produce wealth was assured.
Recommendations:
a. Further contact with the Bartons is unlikely to elicit more useful information; hence, we should leave them be.
b. This agent concurs with the recommendation of co-investigator McKillip that declaring Sp5 Barton dead in a swimming accident is a prudent course to follow, in that it avoids having to make more difficult explanations.
c. Obviously, dropping desertion charges against Sp5 Barton is in order.
d. Notify Defense
Intelligence Agency and Lawrence Livermore National
Laboratories that trans-temporal movement is highly indicated.
Case disposition:
Continue to try to locate Mr. Kuoutang Wong and interview him. Until he
is located, review this case every ten years until minute microsopic
and
biometric comparisons between the marine store owner's and Sp5 Barton's
blood and
hair samples is possible.
Remaining Questions:
a. There appears to be some sort of intelligence guiding the actions / lives of both Sp5 Barton and Miss Molly Danforth. This same intelligence apparently controls the temporal continuum and whatever pathways exist along it. Questions, then, include Why, Why them, why in this particular instance, where else has this happened that we don't know about, how common is this, how will this affect the future, and is there a way to bring this sort of event about on demand?
b. It would appear possible for one person to co-exist with himself at a different age, as Sp5 Barton did in the marine supply store with his 20-year-older self. This paradox simply took place, which leaves us to wonder whether it actually is a paradox. There are, as is well known, no paradoxes in nature. There are only things we do not yet understand. So the question is, how can this be possible?
c. Will we be able to locate Mr. Kuoutang Wong, and if we can, what will he tell us?
This concludes my report.
Kenneth P. Simon, Agent in Charge
Agent Simon has missed a possible conclusion: that true love truly conquers all. He also missed stating a remaining question (at least in the opinion of this agent), which is: Do both Heaven and hell make special dispensations for lovers?
Both such thoughts would likely evade the highly focused analytical thinker, which Agent Simon certainly is, and are the purview of the more relaxed mind, which I have come to conclude is the main reason I was also assigned to this case.
Agent Simon has agreed to further discuss these two points, with a view to perhaps generating a follow up report that includes the results of our discussions. We have agreed to a working supper tonight at a hotel near the site of this romantic mystery, Ferrenggi Beach.
Annie T. McKillip,
Co-investigator
- - - fin - - -
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