April 18, 2005
Dream I: Chainless Souls
Chapter One from "When Amazons Dream"
A Saga by J.S. Nelson
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, `Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!'-- Emily Jane Bronte
Front-page photographs of the strange symbols not only sold newspapers, they stirred the imagination; and the shrewd editor in chief of the city's premier source of investigative reporting was on a personal campaign to solve the mystery behind them.
"You have an urgent call on line two," the secretary's voice blared through the intercom. With her eyes still glued to the latest photo hot off the wire, Loren Cross pushed the speaker button on the phone.
"Cross here," she answered.
"Guess who I had a little chat with down at seventh precinct this morning?" a deep voice blared.
"Your bookie?"
"Very funny. You want the goods, or not?"
"Spill it."
"Sam Jarvis."
"The DA?"
"The very one, and oh so eager to please."
"Cut to the chase, Brass," the prickly editor barked, preempting the veteran newshound's penchant for cat-and-mouse games. She heard him take a drag on his cigarette, but refrained from lecturing.
"There's a witness," he said from inside a lingering exhale. Loren sat up straight, her heart drummed in her ears.
"You don't say," she casually responded in a concerted effort to at least sound blase' when nothing could be further from the truth. "And why would Jarvis leak this to us?"
"Let's just say his re-election campaign is in trouble."
"So who's this witness?"
"Some chick down in Hecate's Cove."
"What's her name?"
"Sam wouldn't give her up, but the upshot is she was walking her dog along the beach and saw the whole thing."
"Exactly what did she see?" Loren asked, barely able to contain herself.
"Beats me."
"You've got to get me her phone number."
"Even if I could -- and I'm not saying I can -- she won't talk. Sam says she's not exactly a friendly witness."
"Let me handle that. Just get me the damn number."
"I'll do what I can, chief, but..."
"Listen, Will, I don't have to tell you what a scoop like this will mean to the bottom line around here."
"What's in it for me?"
"For starters, you get to collect a pay check next month," Loren sharply replied and hung up.
The editor in chief was drawn once again to the latest aerial photo from Tanzania. A detail she hadn't noticed before popped out and hit her squarely between the eyes. She grabbed the ragged tome on aboriginal cosmology and began to leaf through its musty pages.
It wasn't just the bottom line or prestige that had the ex-war correspondent obsessing night and day about the rash of disappearances. The fact that the missing were all women struck a deeply personal chord, and the latest incident so close to home cranked her search for answers into overdrive. Missing person reports had been coming in weekly from every continent on the globe, and because evidence of foul play was yet to be found, the disturbing trend had captured the attention of sleuths worldwide, not to mention mystics and kooks.
2013 had been a particularly bad year for women. Aside from the commonplace tragedies of husbands killing their entire families, all kinds of misogynist atrocities had been committed under the auspices of religious fervor not seen since the Spanish inquisition. Working from the hypothesis that open warfare had in fact been declared on women everywhere, the chief followed leads to various para-military groups involved in mass rape and murder. But all were dead ends.
Undaunted, she dug into the backgrounds of the missing, and The Cascade Guardian was the first to print a profile. Although they came from all age groups and backgrounds, the women were dedicated to activism of one kind or another. Consequently, they had been branded heretics, infidels, or subversives by various fundamentalist and political demigods. In interviewing countless investigators worldwide, there emerged a few clues that both puzzled and fascinated the intrepid editor. First, the women were tracked to coastal areas and, secondly, wax drippings were found in the vicinity of the mysterious symbols. Furthermore, and most intriguing, at several locations along the Tanzanian coast odd symbols freshly etched on cliff walls and rocks were strikingly similar to those found on both North American coasts, as well as on the coasts of the Baltic, Mediterranean, Caspian and Arabian Seas.
"I'll be damned!" Loren shouted after turning to a picture of an eight thousand year old artifact. She sprang from behind her desk and bolted through the perpetually open door of her office.
"Marty. Drop everything," she ordered as she entered the small but always tidy cubicle. The cub reporter abruptly ended her phone conversation and followed the chief into her office.
"Look at this," Loren said, motioning for the young woman to step behind the desk. After studying the picture in the book, Marty looked puzzled.
"We're doing a story on ancient history?"
"Listen up. I want you to take this stack of site photos and see if you can find more matches in this book."
"What's the angle?"
"When you find a match, summarize the text about it. I'll need the results by quitting time."
"What about my piece on rising sea levels--the deadline's this afternoon."
"I'm very aware of that, but this takes priority."
"But I've been working on it for weeks and..."
"It can wait." Loren unceremoniously piled a stack of books into the reporter's arms. As she headed out the door, Will Brass was charging through it.
"Oops, sorry, doll," he said and elicited a frown from the attractive Latina as she squeezed by him. He watched her disappear behind the partition of her cubicle.
"Brass, stop ogling my staff and get in here!" Loren demanded. Grinning ear to ear, Will stepped up to the desk.
"She's nuts about me..she just doesn't know it yet."
"Keep it up and she'll show you how much she knows about harassment law."
With a snort, the fifty-something ex-bureau chief perched on the least cluttered corner of Loren's massive desk.
"Can't a guy appreciate a beautiful woman anymore?"
"Drooling is not the way to a woman's heart, my friend. Besides, she's spoken for," Loren added.
"How do you know?"
"I just know. Now, cut to the chase. My interview--where's the number?" Will jumped up and closed the office door.
"So who's the lucky guy?"
"What?"
"Marty's boyfriend. Who is he?"
"You're pathetic," Loren grumbled.
"How do you know she's spoken for?"
"I know all and see all," Loren had to grin. Will waved a piece of paper in front of her face. When she grabbed for it, he withdrew it.
"Ah--ah--ah. Not so fast. Tell me her story and you get the prize," Will taunted, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. Loren's patience was paper thin. Any other day she would have humored the man who twice saved her life in the bunkers of Iraq.
"Tell you what. You give me the goods and I'll let you keep your job." Loren leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk.
"Oh, now I get it--you want her for yourself."
"Give me the number and I'll forget you said that," Loren shot back with a mean scowl. Will stood, took out the prize from his shirt pocket, wadded it, and tossed it on the massive mahogany desk his boss had inherited from her father, a no nonsense prosecutor who died of a stroke while his oldest daughter was dodging RPG's in the horn of Africa.
"I'll just have to find out for myself, then," Will vowed and folded his burly arms across his chest. Loren grabbed the wad and smoothed it out flat.
"Good work, shylock. I knew I could count on you."
"That's Sherlock to you," Will haughtily said and headed for the door.
"Hey, Willie. You might be interested to know that Marty's honey picked her up for lunch yesterday."
"You don't say. Was he tall, dark and handsome, like me?"
"She was tall, dark, and mighty fine." With relish, she watched god's aging gift to women twist his shit-eating grin into a sneer.
"What's this world coming to?" Will scoffed.
"It's senses, I hope," Loren chuckled. "Close the door after you."
Will saluted his one-time rookie reporter and withdrew mumbling something inaudible. Still chuckling, Loren dialed the number. After several rings, a woman answered.
"Hello? Is this Mariana Morgan?"
"This is her mother. Who's this?"
"My name is Loren Cross. I'm with the Cascade Guardian and..."
"How did you get this number?!"
"I would like to speak with your daughter, ma'am, if she's there. It's very urgent."
"Absolutely not!"
"Women are disappearing by the hundreds all over the globe, ma'am, and your daughter could help get to the bottom of this terrible trend. Please put her on and let her speak for herself." There was a loud click. "Dammit," Loren hissed, slamming the receiver down. She drummed her fingers on the desk, then buzzed Marty, who promptly knocked on her door. "Come in, come in!" The instant Marty stepped inside, the obsessed chief bounded from behind the desk and threw on her jacket.
"I'm driving to the coast. You and Will are in charge. Let him know."
"What about the symbols thing?"
"Keep working on it and tell Will to hold the presses until I give the word."
"Do you know when that'll be?" Marty asked with a worried grimace.
"Don't sweat it, kiddo, I'll call before I head back."
"Should I sit in your office?"
"Suit yourself, but don't go snooping around through my desk," Loren teased with a wink.
Marty returned to her cubicle and began gathering her research materials. After another futile attempt to charm away Sadie Morgan's fierce maternal instincts, Loren stopped at Marty's desk on her way out.
"Anymore matches?" she asked.
"I think I found one." Marty opened the tome to a photo of an ancient shard found in southern Spain. "This double spiral here is from a vase more than ten thousand years old. The text says it represents the `womb of creation' and the infinite cycle of life, death, and rebirth."
"What about the symbol I matched earlier?"
"That's called a labrys, the sacred symbol of the Amazons."
"Interesting. Keep at it, Marty. And don't worry, your piece on sea levels will get front page in next week's issue. That's a promise."
"Thanks. Oh, chief? Can I tell Brass where you're going on the coast?"
"He'll know. Gotta roll--have fun."
Loren flew out into the hall, punched the elevator button, paced like a tiger in a cage, and finally opted for the stairs, where she half-stumbled down six flights and out the rear entrance into the pouring rain.
See June Issue for Chapter Two of WHEN AMAZONS DREAM