Work In Progress

For the first few hours of their journey, neither Arcelia nor John said anything to the other. John was being respectful and Arcelia was far too caught up in trying to figure out what she thought and felt. Certainly she knew her father and mother well enough to know that they were not saints, so she did not condemn John irreversibly. Yet the bonds of blood are strong, and she couldn't easily forgive the deaths of her parents, either.

The whole situation was simply too surreal for Arcelia to react sensibly. There was in any event nothing Arcelia could do about her situation now, having placed herself into the care of this handsome, if strange, assassin. She had been thinking about what little she knew happened for so long that she needed something to distract her from it. She couldn't stop any other way. Resolving to find her distraction in conversation, she finally broke the silence by asking, "So how long have you been an assassin?"

John was a little startled by the abruptness of her question, but he wasn't really surprised by it. Death and grief were his line of work, after all. Looking back at her, he replied "It's nearly twenty years." He pushed on.

Having built up the courage to start a conversation, she wasn't going to let him leave it at that. "Do you like it?"

John stopped walking, and slowly turned to face her. He looked at her face for a moment, almost as if looking for something. She returned his gaze. Not knowing what he was looking for she didn't know how to show it, and didn't even know if she wanted to. She held her expression and waited. She was determined that he would not embarrass her into looking away. At length, he spoke.

"God forgive me. I do."

Arcelia did not take long to reply, "I think that I understand. A while ago you spoke of wanting to be a dragon. I do kind of know what you mean. But to me, you are a dragon. You want to fly, but I'm as far from you as you are from flying." John was silent, listening to her. She continued, "I can't imagine that being a dragon very nice. When you breath fire, you have to breath it somewhere, and fire always burns. But even when it's unpleasant, it must be fun. Even when it's painful, it must be exhilarating."

John looked at Arcelia with respect. A small smile crept over his face. "It is."

He let a moment pass, then asked her, "And what of you? Do you like what your life has been?"

Sometimes two people who don't know each other become intimate simply because they didn't get to know each other more slowly. Such was the friendship forming between Arcelia and John. While they were forming it, neither was willing to slacken the pace.

"You know," she replied, "it really doesn't matter, does it?"

"How do you mean?" John asked.

"I'm starting a new life today. Or maybe I will start it once we get to town. Or maybe I've already started it." She paused for a moment as she jumped over a fallen tree. "Whichever. I wonder what life it should be?"

It may seem strange that Arcelia should be so intimate with the man who just killed her parents. If so, in her defense when the world has turned upside down, the most comfortable position can be standing on your head. It's a sort of humility: when the world goes mad, it may just know something which you don't. It's also true that John was a handsome man, and it's human nature to trust good looking people.

"What should any of us do with our life?" John said thoughtfully. "You know, I did once meet a man who knew what he should do with his life, but he was a monk. Somehow that seems a bit like cheating, doesn't it?"

"How so?"

"Because his answer to the question, 'what should I do in this world?' was 'nothing'. Oh, I don't mean that he made the wrong choice. He's certainly a good monk. It just doesn't seem very helpful as an example for the rest of us."

"Yes. If the purpose of his life was to serve as an example for the rest of us in being worldly, he certainly made a mess of it." Arcelia was feeling quite playful — a little drunk on the feeling of freedom that comes with starting over before the hard work of actually starting sets in. "How do you know that we all shouldn't renounce the world?" Arcelia was actually smiling now.

"As Benedict said in Much Ado About Nothing, 'the world must be peopled'."

"Yes," Arcelia conceded, "but there's more than one way to renounce the world. You hardly live a normal life."

"Do you think that I'm celibate, then?"

Arcelia thought for a moment. "I honestly don't know. You'd certainly be more picturesque if you were. Well, maybe not. I could see you being a lady's man, too. Endlessly bumping from one woman to another and getting nothing but physical release, searching without knowing it for a woman who was more than just a body — that would work too."

John just smiled. "I try to know what I'm looking for. Things are easier to find that way. But I guess that you're right, I'm not normal."

"I guess that you won't be much help, then."

"Probably not."

Arcelia was now not sure how to continue the conversation and stayed silent for a few minutes, hoping that John might think of something to say. At length, he did.

"The obvious way to start is to consider what you're good at. That's also the bad way to start."

It was Arcelia's turn to smile. "You're going to have to explain that one."

"What you're good at is just an accident of your history. You're good at piano because there was a piano in the house. You learned to dance because you admired someone you happen to see two months before you might have seen a kung fu movie if you weren't at dance class. What you're good at is a little bit you but mostly it's everyone else. We talk about making our way in life, but mostly we make each other's ways. Dr Frankenstein had nothing on the guy who taught me to shoot. If you really want to decide for yourself, start at the end and work your way backwards. The first question is what you want written on your tombstone. The second question is what you need to do to convince people to write it. Once you've answered that, you know what to do with your life."

Arcelia considered this for a few moments, then asked, "And what do you want written on your tombstone?"

John grinned and said, "Look behind you."

John laughed and Arcelia joined him. It was good to laugh.

They continued on in silence for some time. Conversations are fragile things, and neither Arcelia nor John wanted to break the one they were having. They also both had a lot on their minds. John is contemplative by nature, and there were practical matters which he had to pay attention to as well. Arcelia had asked some questions which she would soon need to have answers to. Neither really noticed how much time had passed when Arcelia asked, "So... is it difficult to learn to be an assassin?"

John thought about it for only a moment before replying, "That really depends on how long you plan to survive for."

Arcelia believed him, but somehow it didn't seem right to just agree with him, so she said, "Is striking from the shadows really that dangerous an occupation?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. Even and idiot can last for a little while. The thing is, most idiots do. Killing people for money is not usually a good way to make friends, but it's a wonderful way to make enemies."

"I can imagine. Do you think that I'm too old to start learning?"

"There isn't really such a thing as too old. I mean, if you're sixty you're probably not going to be doing a lot of acrobatics, but acrobatics are rarely a good idea."

Arcelia smiled. "You mean that the movies aren't realistic? That's rather dissapointing to hear."

John smiled back. "If the movies were realistic, they'd have to make the movies differently. No one pays a movie theater to see what they could watch on the news."

Arcelia considered this for a moment, then got to the point. "So, do you think that I should give it a try?"

John wasn't surprised by the question. "That depends on why you want to," he said.

Arcelia wasn't surprised either. She looked very serious and said, "Because I want to be a dragon too."

John considered this a moment.

"Let's get to town first."

They stayed, staring at each other, for nearly a minute. It was Arcelia who broke the silence.

"Who are you? And what, exactly, have you done?"

"Call me Ramirez. What I've done, depending on how you would like to look at it, is avenge over two decades of brutality and barbarism or kill your parents and the seventeen men your father had hired as guards (incidentally, it is convenient that your maid visits her family every third Sunday).

"For what it's worth," he added, "I'm sorry for causing you suffering."

After a few moments, Arcelia broke the silence again, "And you want me to go with you?"

"I never said that I wanted anything. I made you an offer. I do think that you would be wise to accept it, but that doesn't mean that I do — or don't — want you to."

Almost impulsively, Arcelia asked, "Well, what do you want?" Like all human beings, she had the instinct to seize the initiative, even if she had no idea what to do with it once she had it.

John smiled, his eyes twinkling devilishly. "I want to be a dragon. I want a body the size of a school bus and a tail longer than a snake. I want wings the size of the sails on a ship, teeth sharper than a needle, and breath hotter than hell. I want to soar among the clouds like a bird and look down on all the beautiful world. I want to be more than a man and have none of Man's vices."

Arcelia didn't know how to respond. She wanted control of the situation, or the conversation, or something. She couldn't think of how to get it. Finally, she said, "Whether or not I accept your offer, if you're so concerned about my welfare, please don't joke with me."

"I was quite serious. That is what I want. That it's not terribly relevant to the moment is true, but it's your business why you want to know this now, not mine."

"Why are you being so literal?"

"Why aren't you?"

"Why have you offered to bring to me civilization?"

"Because you are in danger."

"Because of you!"

"Exactly."

"Well, then, if you were so concerned about me why did you put me in danger?"

"Because I could also get you out of it."

Arcelia paused and thought for a moment. His responses were all reasonable — but for an insane situation. Was it really possible that he did what he claimed? Was it really possible that her family and all of their guards were dead? She hadn't really started to believe it yet, but it was really starting to worry her that no one had come in response to her screams earlier. Enriqué should have come running within a few seconds. Could everyone be in the far side of the house for some reason? Could they have left her all alone in her room and this crazy stranger wandered in somehow?

"I take it that you won't mind if I walk around and make sure that you're telling the truth about my family?"

The idea that this strange man could have been telling the truth about her family had not really sunk in, and she was mostly concerned with keeping him calm while she found out what was really going on.

"That's as you please. I hope that you have a strong stomach."

It disconcerted her that he didn't mind. She had expected that he would find some excuse to keep her from looking around. Still, she had to find out what was going on and she couldn't be in any more danger leaving her room than she was staying there with "Ramirez".

Arcelia slowly got up and put on her night robe, keeping her eyes on Ramirez. She had no real reason for watching him — if he was going to jump her he could more easily have done that before waking her up.

She didn't admit it to herself, but she watched him because of his calm confidence. He had turned the world on its side, but he was standing upright in the tumult he caused. He was at once an angel and a devil, and whichever side predominated he seemed, at least, to know what was going on.

Arcelia slowly walked out of her room. She had half-expected to see corpses in the hallway, and was a little relieved that there was not so much as a bloody footprint. She walked past the two rooms reserved for her sisters when they visit and went to her parents room. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Scarcely a moment later, she shut her eyes and turned from the grizzly scene, driving her head into her hands as if she could undo what she saw if she just pressed hard enough.

"No... No..." she said, as if to someone. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked for John. She felt many things, but above all she was confused. Grief, understanding, even anger — all these things had to wait until she figured out what was going on now.

She hadn't heard him come after her, but he was only a few feet behind her. He was just standing there, with a look somewhere between compassionate and curious, respectfully silent. Arcelia stared into his eyes. She swallowed and took a deep breath, preparing to speak. It was some minutes before she could speak, though. Every time she opened her mouth to try no words would come.

At last she said, quietly, "So it is true?"

"Yes," he said gently.

"Do I really have a choice?"

"Yes."

"Do you really consider dying in the jungle to be a choice?"

"Yes, though it is not certain that on your own, you would die. Nothing in this world is certain until it happens."

"You're quite the philosopher."

John spoke in the same gentle voice, but there was a hint of a smile on his face: "Yes."

Arcelia sighed. She almost laughed at the absurdity of her situation.

"What should I do?" she asked. "What would you do, if you were me?"

"If I were you," he said thoughtfully, "I would accept my offer.

"If I meant to do anything bad to you, I would surely have done it by now. If I wanted to harm you, there was no reason to wake you up. Even if i wanted to kidnap you and deliver you to some vengeful associates of mine — incidentally, there's no one that I know of who holds a grudge against you — even if I had wanted to kidnap you, I could have just tied your hands and forced you to walk behind me.

"So, all things considered, it wouldn't seem very likely that I was being deceptive in my offer, or at least, if I was, my deception would be too subtle to discover just by thinking about it. So I would accept.

"But what shall you do?"

Arcelia thought for a moment. "I'll come with you." Having decided to trust him, at least for now, she figured that she might as well ignore her anger. "So, what now?"

"You should pack some rugged clothing in a bag. Long pants and long-sleeved shirts, if you have them. Also socks, underwear, etc. Also, you'll want to bring money, as it will be useful to you once we get to town. I'll carry the bag for you, so it's OK if it's heavy, though please don't be ridiculous about it."

Arcelia did as John suggested and within half an hour they were off.

I'll call him John. He never gives out his real name, so one name is as good as another. He is, among other things, an assassin, and a damn good one. Actually, he's the best there is, though of course you won't find anyone who will either confirm or deny that.

Now, assassins are a poorly understood lot. If you close your eyes and try to picture an assassin, you'll probably come up with the image of a man casually setting up his sniper rifle on the top of the building next to his mark. If killing people was so easy, we'd have to draft our political leaders by lottery rather than elect them by vote. The world of the skilled assassin is a very deadly one, often more dangerous for the predators than for their prey. Assassins spend most of their time hunting their own kind.

It was doing exactly that which took up most of the time John spent on the execution of Carlos Ramirez y Fuentes, the erstwhile dictator in all but title of a small rural patch of one of the less prosperous of the South American countries. He wasn't too bad, as such overlord-thugs go, but then being beaten with a stick isn't bad as vicious beatings go. However little his conscience bothered him, he did know that there were people who would, so he spared little expense in fortifying his villa.

A dozen armed men patrolled the edges of Carlos' extensive property, and there were another four inside who stuck close to Carlos day and night. They were not high quality assassins, but then most of the paid killers in this world are mere thugs — simple men whose one great intellectual discovery was how to amputate their moral compass.

Of course John attacked in the night. Those prepared for the night always have an advantage in it. This advantage would largely have been lost if the Carlos' guards had their dogs at hand while walking the patrols, but luckily for John the dogs had all been sick for the past two days from some bad dog food. Either that or an inhaled neurotoxin the dogs were exposed to sniffing around the grounds. The symptoms are quite difficult to tell apart.

The guards were very nervous without their dogs, of course. Any change in routine is enough to set a bodyguard on edge. They had largely calmed down by the second day. John always liked to say that Iago's observations about reputation go double for fear: it often comes without cause and goes without reason. Not that their lost fear would have done them any good, but their reduced caution made John's job easier.

The first two (they patrolled in pairs) were not much trouble. A pair of crossbow bolts silenced them forever. The rest were easier; with a gap in the patrol there was more time to work on the tail end of the snipped circle. Within half an hour the twelve professional killers who guarded the property had become professional worm food. It was the first time any of them had ever given food to the hungry.

Though it was safe to walk up the driveway, John never took risks he could avoid. He had dispatched the sniper who sat at one end of the property and watched the patrols over the patrols every night with his scope. The last words he heard before he felt the bullet pierce his skull were the almost apologetic explanation, "It's a bad idea to return to the same place by habit." John had hidden the walkie-talkie in the tree next to the forked branch the sniper sat in every night. It was unnecessary, but John always had a soft place in his heart for snipers. They played a hard and lonely game, and when they lose it, they deserve to know why they lost.

John had killed that sniper, but what if he missed a second one? He had never made that mistake in his one hundred and thirty eight jobs, but if there was going to be a first time, he'd rather not make it easy for the guy.

The electricity going out was not an unusual occurrence and the well maintained diesel generator kicked on almost instantly. It sputtered out nearly as quickly since John's bullet cut the fuel line almost where it entered the engine. In a few moments John was inside the house and eliminated the house guards. Private rooms may be more comfortable, but they are less safe than shared quarters. Within ten minutes of entering, John had made his way inside the bedroom to where the man and his wife slept. Silently he drew the long, sharp sword from its velvet-lined sheath. Moving with silent grace, he came to the foot of the bed with his sword poised and looked into the face of the doomed man.

John almost thought that it would be a pity that this man who had ordered so many tortures and painful executions would himself die a quick and painless death, but he checked himself. No. He grimly smiled to himself. I will not make Hamlet's mistake, he thought. I am executioner, not judge; God may decide whether Carlos Ramirez y Fuentes should suffer, it is only my job to hasten that decision. In a flash John brought his sword down separating the dictator's head from his body. At the same time as Almira Ramirez y Sanchez was startled from her sleep, John leaped catlike over the bed and twisting in mid-air pulled his sword out of the mattress, landed next to the woman who just sat up and continuing the sweep of his sword sent Almira to join her husband. Her jealous spite had deprived too many beautiful young girls of their ears and nose because Carlos had looked at them longingly, too many women of their lives because Carlos flirted with them.

John cleaned his sword and re-sheathed it. There was still one task left. The Ramirez' daughter, Arcelia, had no hand in her parents cruelty and no one really wish her ill. Certainly no one who had commissioned John to execute the elder Ramirez, at least.

He walked into her room, in which she lay asleep, and inspected it (and her) carefully for hidden weapons and trap triggers. When he was satisfied that she was completely unarmed, he leaned against her dresser and said, simply, "Arcelia."

She awoke slowly at first, but then with a start when she realized that there was a strange man in her room. He held his hand up to signal that she should be quiet, but she screamed anyway. Pulling the blanket protectively around her, she huddled up in the corner of her be farthest from the strange man and waited for the guards her scream would fetch.

After a few moments, he broke the silence, "There is no one here to come running to you, Arcelia, unless you can scream loud enough to wake the dead."

She merely looked at him with fearful eyes. He was probably lying just to get her to keep quiet. She screamed again, "Help! Help!" Where were the guards? She cowered back a little, and pulled the sheets a little tighter, though he hadn't moved.

"Since all I want to do is talk with you, we might as well start now as wait a few minutes for no one to come."

She started at him in pure fear. Who was this man, and could he be telling the truth? How could he be telling the truth? Her father had over a dozen men working on the grounds. Could they call be dead?

"What do you want with me?"

"What does any man want of any woman? That you listen to me and be rational."

She flashed him a burning look. The circumstances might be terrifying, but she was not going to take a sexist joke lightly, all the same.

He chuckled. "If you don't want certain answers, don't ask open-ended questions. Anyhow, for your sake I'll be brief." He drew a deep breath, then continued, "Arcelia, you're a woman alone in dangerous country. For perhaps obvious reasons I had to disable the telephones, so you can't call for help. I don't suggest trying to shout to your neighbors, either. Your father picked this area for his retirement because of its isolation. Unless you can talk with animals you'd find it a very one-sided conversation.

"My offer is this: I can simply leave you here, and you can find your way to wherever you want to go carrying whatever weapons you can find in the house, or you can go unarmed and I'll escort you until you're there and safe."

She stared at him incredulously.