Heavy Metal

by Steve Bates

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

I realize that I have never asked my client why it wants this ore. I assumed that its scarcity was reason enough. Could it be an energy source more powerful than uranium? Might it be a rare earth mineral essential to advanced technology? Or is it part of some scam or elaborate joke? I don’t care. My client has always paid me in the past, and it has promised me a ton of money for a hefty delivery. Money has a magic that nothing else can match.

I focus on the young woman and older man who are gripping bags and awaiting liftoff in the other circles. A candle flickers and plays tag with shadows, stealing my attention for a few moments. I return my gaze to the circles and realize that the man is fading, like a photograph left out in the sun for too long. The process continues until nothing of him is left. Only moments later, the woman starts to recede. Soon she, too, is gone.

I can’t take my eyes off the scene as muffled cries of joy — or is it envy? — fill the chamber.

Caleb raises his arms and proclaims, “Bless all of you for your assistance in sending our acolytes on their sacred journeys.” All mumble a brief response that I can’t quite decipher before they file out through three tunnels, like sleepwalkers in a maze. Only Caleb and I remain.

“Nice trick,” I say.

Caleb shakes his head. “No trick. You must respect the metal for its power or it will manipulate you in ways that you will not like.”

“I’ve dealt with it before,” I brag, though it was unrefined and in small quantities.

He paces in a semi-circle, studying me, before speaking. “Have you always been this ... mercenary?”

I close my eyes. My mother’s face comes to me, but not my father’s, no matter how hard I try to recall him. When I was young, he would show up unannounced after absences of three months or three years, then vanish again soon thereafter.

My father and my mom would argue fiercely about money every time he came. Sometime in my teen years, I understood that he was never returning. It was something I saw in my mother’s eyes shortly before she died.

“I’ve been obsessed with money my whole life, because I’ve never had any,” I concede. “I’ve just been trying to stay alive, like everyone else.”

Caleb’s face reveals a depth of sadness that I have rarely encountered. He gestures toward a tunnel to his left and states in a hollow tone, “This way.”

* * *

We must be deeper than at any time since I left the jungle surface. The tunnel’s ceiling is so low that I have to bend over as I walk. My breath clouds as we approach a chamber projecting a deep yellow glow along the tunnel wall. The lure of the metal has become overwhelming, filling me with an eerie amalgam of pleasure and dread.

Entering the room cautiously, I ogle slabs of the treasure stacked about two meters high on a low table of plain wood, surrounded by walls that contain no ornamentation other than candle holders. The precious metal is emitting a high-pitched whine and shining like a small sun. There must be enough of it to buy Manhattan. Maybe a couple of other boroughs as well.

“Some say the sacred metal sings,” says Caleb, his head bowed as if at an altar. “Others claim it speaks to them.”

I step forward, intending to run my hands all over the glorious pile, but I don’t make contact. I realize that my limbs are shaking.

“You use this only for your ceremonies?” I inquire.

“That is its one true purpose,” Caleb responds.

“You could sell this cache and be richer than any man on Earth.”

Caleb shakes his head in negation: “Rich in conventional terms, perhaps. But the spiritual richness we find with the metal is far more important to us. And we are concerned that it will be misused.” He turns and addresses a young man who has been waiting just outside the chamber: “Morgan, please fetch Rebecca and a handcart and assist our visitor.”

The lanky, clean-shaven teenager with shoulder-length blond hair returns shortly with a young, stout woman. They cast quick, disapproving glances in my direction before they start to load a cart with dense chunks of brilliant metal.

Caleb examines me as if I am an unrepentant killer headed for the gallows. He seems to be searching me for any sign of a soul. He says, “Please reconsider your decision to leave at this time. I am compelled to inform you that your fate hangs in the balance. Your fate, and that of many other people as well.”

I shake my head.

He points a finger in my direction. “If only you would try our way one time. Just one time. It could change everything.” He sweeps both arms as if to encompass not just this dismal subterranean warren, but all of the known universe. “None of this would be necessary.”

I try not to reveal my frustration at his tactic for delay or the confusion generated by his comment that “none of this would be necessary.” I feel like I’m falling into a trap, if I have not done so already.

Caleb seems to be focusing kilometers away. He adds in an almost casual tone, “You will return.”

I decide not to voice my extremely firm belief that I will never come back here. He gazes at me for a ridiculously long moment before departing silently.

I can’t hide my elation as Morgan and Rebecca finish loading my treasure. Morgan pushes the cart through a series of tunnels for several minutes before we reach an exit wide enough to accommodate it. The angle of the sun indicates that it’s late afternoon, but there should be enough daylight left for me to reach the dock, load my little boat, and make it to my client’s ship.

* * *

After about 15 minutes on a dusty jungle path with the youngsters, I can’t stand the silence. “Young lady, have you used this metal for a journey?”

“Not yet. I will someday.”

“What do you hope to find?

“My destiny.”

Says Morgan, his voice dripping with scorn, “Rebecca thinks she’s The One.”

“The One?” I attempt to sound nonjudgmental.

“The One who can master time and space. The One who can use the metal’s powers to break the spell, to interrupt the cycle.” He shakes his head. “I am so much more likely to be The One.”

She continues to move the cart forward, not responding to his provocation. I’m tempted to grill these young people further, but I resist. I still need their help.

Morgan relieves Rebecca for a turn pushing the cart. The girl rubs her arms and starts to hum as she follows. It’s a strange tune, almost mournful, and decidedly unnerving. I try not to pay attention.

The terrain becomes flatter and the jungle thins. Faint voices and the odor of rotting fish reach us. The youngsters halt.

“This is as far as we go,” says Rebecca.

“Thanks for your help,” I respond. Out of habit, I reach into my pocket for a tip. I remember that I have nothing to give them. Not that they need cash; they live surrounded by riches.

Rebecca stares me down as if I bear a plague. “Caleb thought that you were The One,” she says, her bitter words striking me like physical blows. “You’re just a greedy grifter.”

I laugh. And I don’t deny her claim. “Suppose you are or become The One?” I say for the sake of argument, “what do you hope to achieve?”

“To discover how this ends,” says Rebecca without hesitation.

“A better goal,” suggests Morgan, “would be to find out how it starts.”

The youngsters turn to leave, but Rebecca pauses and juts her chin in my direction, saying, “Will you never learn?”

As the youths melt into the jungle, I process her question. It’s too cryptic for me to wrap my head around. I start to push the cart, but it’s heavy, and my progress is slow. I can’t shake Caleb’s words. He seemed so certain when he declared: “You will return.” And he was so sad. It was almost like he knew my past and my future, though we hadn’t met before today.

As I sweat and grunt, I consider shedding a slab or two of the metal to lighten my load. Maybe I could hide it and come back for it. But I’m certain that I will never return here. And I couldn’t live with myself if I forfeited any of the treasure. I’ve earned every cubic centimeter of it with a lifetime of suffering. So, I strain and huff and puff all the way to the dock.

There’s maybe an hour of daylight left. Sun-baked fishermen are unloading their hauls, laughing at some stale joke or at how badly they smell. I look around furtively to make sure no one is approaching me to steal my cargo.

I slide knee deep into the dark green water and position the slabs on the bottom of my dinghy so that their weight is distributed evenly. The naked metal is warm, almost hot. Its shine is nearly blinding, and its singing seems even stronger than before. Still, no one on the dock seems to pay me much attention.

I cast off, I walk the dinghy into deeper water, and I clamber slowly to the center of the boat, adjusting my weight constantly to keep everything stable. I start to row, but the craft is so heavy, the tide will have to do much of the work to propel me to the waiting ship.

When I reach hailing distance, I stand cautiously and wave both arms. My cargo is almost howling. Maybe it’s trying to warn me about something. I am intoxicated by its plaintive tune, but my instincts for self-enrichment and self-preservation remain strong. I focus intently and realize that the air has become much cooler.

My vision glazes over as the sun kisses the horizon, so I squint. My client’s ship seems to be different than it looked a few minutes ago. I’m seeing tall, wooden masts where I’m certain that a wide smokestack stood. And I notice rough, brown timbers where its smooth, gray metal side should be. The glare dissipates as the bow of the craft blocks the setting sun, but the vessel’s unexpected features remain. Is this the wrong ship?

My world is shattered by the blast of a cannon. The ball strikes the sea less than five meters from me, rocking my boat precariously. The second cannon shot clears my head by maybe a meter, rustling my hair. I suspect that the whoosh will haunt my dreams for years.

I wave my arms frantically, attempting to signal that I am no threat. I see two simple rowboats, each with two men, head my way. On the big ship’s forward mast, I notice a tattered flag whipping in the breeze. I do a double-take, and my heart sinks. It’s a skull and crossbones.

The men in the boats are dressed in red bandanas, white shirts and brown vests with leather laces everywhere. Except for the tallest one, who sports a tri-cornered hat and a full-length black coat. I begin to realize why some people promise fortunes and others risk their lives to acquire this metal. It must have power over time. If I can believe my eyes, it’s working its magic right now, right here. On me.

The boats pull up on either side of me. I make no effort to elude the seamen. The tallest one says something in a language I don’t understand. He gestures for me to get into the boat to my right. As I do so, he barks orders at the other three sailors. They remove their boots, leap into the water, and begin to rock my boat. On the third try they manage to capsize it, sending the metal on a precipitous dive to Davey Jones’s Locker.

Part of me wants to jump in after it, not thinking that I couldn’t reach, let alone rescue, a single slab. And not considering that the gem-inlaid pistol in the tall man’s hand could finish me off if the sea did not. I merely stare at the rolling water, too stunned for fury or despair to take hold. How many more secrets do these waves sequester?

I feel like a two-bit actor in a movie as I am rowed to the pirate ship, dragged on board, and clasped in rusty shackles. I am shoved down creaky wooden stairs to the lowest level. I join nearly two dozen shirtless, bearded, seriously malnourished men who start rowing under the command of a short, shaggy, hunchbacked sailor who brandishes a nasty whip. The lighting is poor, the heat is intense, and the stench of the slaves is more foul than any I can recall in my four-plus decades.

My arms ache after barely five minutes on the job. None of the other rowers speaks to me. None gives me more than a passing glance, even when I start to moan. The man with the whip cracks it so close to my left ear that I doubt I’ll ever regain full hearing in it.

Despite my deepening misery, I suppress a laugh. The consequences of my actions — of my foolishness and my greed — wash over me like a tsunami. The ore brought me here. To this time and place. Is this some wicked manifestation of karma? Or just incredibly bad luck? I realize much too late that I should have heeded Caleb’s warnings. I can’t imagine how I can survive here and now.

A sudden epiphany shakes me to the core. Caleb said that the founder of his cult made it ashore after a shipwreck in these waters long before Caleb was born. He said that the founder looked exactly like me. He noted that I have the power to prevent bad things from happening to people. And I recall the youngsters talking about a cycle, about beginnings and endings.

Another sharp whip crack sounds near me, followed by a low rumble. Is that thunder? Perhaps the volcano preparing to erupt? I peek out a tiny porthole and realize that this ship is dangerously close to shallow water and hidden rocks.

I put my back into my rowing.