connections with several skippers who might take on such an unsavory cargo. Have you heard anything?”
Captain Locke was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “I’m not sure, Captain, but I heard Wiley Roos was up to something. He was taking the Rosy Crab out not long ago, with some sort of mysterious cargo. My sources didn’t say what.”
“Any idea where he was headed?”
“South, I think, San Diego or Mexico.”
“I see. And what are you carrying, Captain?”
“Sheep from Peru. They’re bound for Oregon, Coos Bay. Some rancher up there thinks he can cross-breed them with American breeds. Make more wool, or something, per sheep.” Willy stuffed his hand in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“Well, then, Captain Locke, carry on. I presume you have all the necessary permits from the Agriculture boys.”
“I do have, Captain.”
“Well, ta-ta, then.”
“Ta-ta, Captain.”
Willy watched the man climb over the rail and down the ladder toward the boat that had brought him from his ship. His protruding abdomen snagged on a spike at the rail, and he lost a button on his shirt. Willy heard his muttered curse.
When Dijee came in with Willy’s cleaned clothes, she was grinning with glee. “That Captain P. G. Keane is a fool,” she said. “He believed Captain Locke’s lie about Wiley Roos. Wiley’s actually sailing the Rosy Crab to Alaska to take on a load of dead fish.” Willy laughed with her.
“Why didn’t Captain Keane come here to check the cargo?” he asked.
“The pompous fool has the hots for Captain Locke. If she’s doing something under the table, he’d rather not know.” Dijee grinned. “She gets away with a lot, that way.”
“I see,” Willy said. Captain Locke called for Dijee to come on deck.
“Bye,” she tossed over her broad shoulder, and hurried to meet the Captain.
The llamas went back to munching hay as Captain Locke re-started her engines and plowed slowly northward to San Danson Cove.
A Conclave of Cameloids
Captain Anna Locke carefully steered the Half Shell into San Danson Cove, following the route the Codfather had impressed on her mind. The llamas kept Willy Waugh busy during this passage. The surf crashing near Obaheah and Obadiah rocks particularly frightened them. The new cría moaned pitifully, sensing the fear in its mother. Even the unicorn with the unique horn, who had traveled by sea before, was uneasy with the roaring waves. At least when they entered the cove the noise diminished, and the herd grew quieter.
Dijee Tully leaped from the Half Shell onto the wharf. It was decrepit, and the board she landed on cracked audibly under her foot. She immediately pirouetted to another board, this one thankfully sounder, and lashed the Half Shell’s line to a substantial piling. Then she walked with great care along the wharf toward the boat’s stern. Captain Locke threw the stern line to her. Dijee caught it neatly and lashed it securely to another piling. Then Captain Locke threw Dijee another line, which the sailor used to pull a gangplank onto the wharf. Dijee carefully tested it, and determined it sat on a sound part of the pier.
Meanwhile Willy had haltered all the llamas, except the new cría, who would follow its mother. The unicorn with the unique horn needed no halter. She would lead the way as the lead llama, trusting Willy to discreetly bring her horn along. Willy led the llamas out onto the wharf one at a time. Dijee and Anna held them by their halters until Willy had off-loaded the full herd. Then the unicorn led them up the wharf to the shore by Martyr’s Creek, crossed the creek on the beach where it was shallow, and up the hill to a row of cottages. Willy stopped them there, and removed their halters. For a time, they milled around, sampling the grasses along the Village path.
With a cry the unicorn gathered them together. They each settled comfortably to a lying down position and began to commune with one another. She-Who-Prefers-Blue-Eyed-Grass opened with a statement in favor of staying near the Village. “Perhaps we can break into one of these structures for shelter against the weather,” she urged.
He-Who-Is-Always-Randy enthusiastically endorsed She-Who-Prefers-Blue-Eyed-Grass’s idea. “It’s level here,” he said, “and we have the big water to protect us on one side. Also, we have drinking water nearby.”
“I don’t feel safe here,” said She-Who-Trembles-At-Every-Noise, “especially with a new cría to guard.” He-Who-Is-Always-Randy snorted in disgust.
“I agree with She-Who-Trembles-At-Every-Noise,” said She-Who-Seldom-Speaks. “We need a safe place, and that means high ground.”
As often happens with cameloid conclaves all the llamas started chattering mentally and bleating verbally to argue the relative merits of the flat land and the hillside. When this had gone on for several minutes, growing more confused and noisy as the time passed, the unicorn with the unique horn sent out a blast of mental energy that stopped the chattering and bleating as though someone had switched off a radio.
“We will go up the hill,” the unicorn told them. “Near the top we will find a place to bed down. Follow me.” Her command got all the llamas to their feet and started them up the hill. Near the top they discovered a group of rocks that provided a natural fortress, and, wonder of wonders, had a small spring that formed a shallow pool for drinking water. Even He-Who-Always-Complains declared it a satisfactory habitat. Since the day was drifting toward twilight, the llamas snatched a few mouthfuls of grass, and bedded down for the night inside the circle of rocks. Willy Waugh found them here, and made his own bed under an overhang of one of the rocks. When the fog climbed the hill, it shrouded the rocks a soft silence that soothed the sea-wracked nerves of the boy-man and the llamas alike.
Dijee Tully and Anna Locke used the cold waters of Martyr’s Creek to wash themselves. They had no effective pumping equipment, so could not sluice the llama dung from the cargo space.
“Let it be, Dijee,” Anna said. “It should dry out in a few days, and then we can sweep it up and dump it overboard.” It was a chore they never got round to doing. Rainy weather moved in for two days, and no dung dried in that time.
Two days later, clouds from the north assaulted the City, promising rain as an Allen touring car led a caravan of trucks and cars with rented trailers across the northern bridge. La Señora drove the touring car. Dickon drove a truck, as did Elke Hall. Mae Ling, the Swami, and Malcolm Drye each drove a car pulling a rented trailer. The drive up the coast to San Danson station was slow. The rain required careful driving. The trucks labored on the many upgrades, and crept along on the downgrades, lest the drivers lose control of them. All the vehicles took the sharp curves of the Coast Highway with caution.
The rain cleared and the evening sun was painting rosebuds on the clouds as the caravan reached San Danson station. For that night each of them had a room in the motel. Tomorrow they would unload their belongings, each taking the cottage La Señora had assigned them. Then they would drive the trucks up the hill, using the Coastal Commission road, and unload the furniture for the manor house.
The unicorn with the unique horn knew, of course, the moment La Señora arrived. Willy Waugh, comfortably clad in only his briefs, did not find out until the next day. Elke came looking for him, and immediately put him to work unloading furniture. Only a nourishing lunch from Rosa Krushan’s efforts in the kitchen mitigated his loss of autonomy.
Several weeks of sweeping aside dust and cobwebs, punctuated with repairs to windows, doors, and roofs, followed. The llamas discovered where the best grasses grew. They soon settled into a grazing routine. The people allotted the cottages among themselves, and agreed on certain simple rules of courtesy. Thus did the Village of San Danson begin to shape itself into a community.
Later Years
Ben received a great honor when he was asked to re-write the control program for the disbursement software. For three years he worked nights, days, and weekends, to perfect the program. He eventually compl
eted the great control program and went on to other projects with Indigent Aborigine that consumed less of his time. He had time to join Len in a program to visit AIDS patients in the Osso Del Oso Rosebud Memorial Hospital. In the ward for terminally ill convicts he recognized Joe King, his old boss at the Neighborhood Bank in Denver. Joe didn’t recognize Ben; Joe was beyond recognizing anyone. Toxoplasmosis had worn away his brain. Ben wrote to Minnie Vann about it.
Ms. Minnie Vann
1217 Free Radical Lane
The City
July 12, 1991
Dear Minnie,
I had an odd experience today. I was in the prisoner’s ward at Rosebud Memorial. They’d brought in a new patient. He was in a bad way, I could tell, right off. He intrigued me, because he was so familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I tried to talk with him, but all he could talk about was the cockroaches eating dead rattlesnakes. I thought he was getting agitated, so I walked on to the next bed. While I was talking with him I suddenly realized who the first man reminded me of. My old boss at Neighborhood National in Denver.
I went back to the first man and read the name on his chart. It said Joe King. That’s who it was, my old boss. The man in the next bed on the other side had been watching me. He asked me if I knew Joe. I told him I thought it was a former boss I’d had. He told me Joe had survived in prison by