Calendar Mystery 9: FESTINA LENTE
Characters:
Chris Josephson, 29, creative writer and professor, owner of Sandy
Point lighthouse
Peter Red Crow, 19, Ojibwe farmer; also called `Red Crow ' until it
is necessary to distinguish him from Simon
Simon Red Crow, 22, `Mr. May ' in the gay calendar
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This chapter is loaded with adventure. In dedicating it to Graham in Australia, I strive to be worthy of his support and of suggestions that he sent my way, which will have an impact in later chapters. Goran: goranbixo@aol.com
At Burntside Lodge, Chris Josephson and Peter Red Crow prepared for their nocturnal journey into the forested Boundary Waters. While Chris paid for the house rental at the front desk, he and Peter overheard two middle-aged men in the bar, miners from Hibbing who bragged about how they were going to hunt down the local wild man '. Newspapers in Hibbing and Ely had published stories about wild man ' sightings on the southern fringe of the Boundary Waters. One newspaper printed a photo of a naked man from a distance, running away from the photographer.
"Let 's linger in the bar, " Chris said. "Maybe we 'll learn more about this `wild man '. "
In local gossip, opinions varied. Was it Bigfoot or Yeti or Sashquash? The nude in the photo looked like an ordinary man. A Baptist preacher said that the wild man was Nebuchadnezzar come back from the dead to prove the historical truth of the book of Daniel. An editorial writer asked in his title: The Boundary Waters Wild Man: Tristan or Lancelot? ' The author speculated that the wild man was a wild ' wild man like Tristan, who roamed the farms killing cattle by day, and chasing bears in the woods by night. Maybe he was a melancholy wild man like Lancelot, writing sonnets on strips of birch bark and nailing them to trees. The author concluded his essay by remarking that Don Quixote, driven by love-longing for Dorothea, debated whether to emulate Tristan or Lancelot. He lacked the energy of Tristan, so he wrote sonnets on birch bark in imitation of Lancelot.
"Unrequited love, " Chris scoffed. "Men have gone mad from time to time, and sometimes died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. "
A man at the bar read the essay out loud and others debated. Was the wild man dangerous, or melancholy?
"They 're taking this newspaper article seriously, " Chris whispered to Peter Red Crow. "They don 't understand satire. Everything he writes is ripped off from Malory 's Morte Darthur ' or Cervantes 's Don Quixote '. But seriously, Red Crow, you are going to have to apply your archery to a human target. When you do, try not to kill him. "
One of Chris 's vibes.
They embarked in a canoe with Chris in steerage and Red Crow up front. They towed a second canoe filled with gear: tent, sleeping bags, lantern, food, clothing for Simon. Red Crow kept his crossbow at his side. "We could manage with a single canoe, but when we find Simon, we 'll need two, " Chris explained.
"Why at night? " Red Crow wondered. "Why not wait until morning? "
"Because of the hunters, " Chris replied. "We need to get a head start on those guys in the lodge who plan to hunt the `wild man '. Don 't worry, Red Crow, I spent my childhood in these waters, and besides, Manitou is with us. We 've got twenty miles to go, through a network of lakes and rivers. "
They exited Burntside Lake for their first river, really more of a stream. "Our motto is
`Festina lente '. Make haste slowly, " Chris said. It was a night without wind. All was quiet, except for their voices, and they had time for conversation.
"You think the `wild man ' is Simon, " Red Crow said.
"I know he is, " Chris replied.
"How can you know that? " Peter Red Crow wondered.
"Your DNA in my bloodstream connects me to Simon, " Chris replied. "That 's what the peyote ritual was for. "
"I feel used, " Red Crow quipped. "Used! " Deadpan overstatement is characteristic of Ojibwe humor.
"Not to worry, Peter Red Crow, " Chris replied. "I 'll make it up to you. "
"Can you see Simon, like in a vision? " Red Crow wondered.
"No visions, " Chris replied. "I feel what he feels: fear, hope, freedom, danger, hunger, physical exertion. The closer we get to him, the stronger the empathy. "
"What 's he feeling now? " Red Crow asked.
"Terror, " Chris replied. "He 's afraid that the men who held him captive for months will catch him again. More than that I can 't say. It would break your heart. His greatest danger, and ours, will be those double-digit-IQ hunters from Hibbing. "
"Will empathy lead us to him? " Red Crow asked.
"Not really, " Chris said. "I 'm hoping for a vibe. When we get close enough, we 'll set up camp. Simon will find our tent by following the lantern. "
It was 3:00 in the morning when Chris and Peter Red Crow landed on the sandy shore of a small lake. By lantern light, they erected the spider-leg tent, unloaded their gear, and rolled out their sleeping bags: two singles zipped together to make a double bed. Chris advised Red Crow to stash his crossbow and arrows on his side of the bed.
They carried the lantern back to the beach to bathe in the lake. They didn 't fool around in the water like guys usually do, but they washed each other 's bodies, as if with an invisible bar of soap. Fondled each other. Red Crow got reacquainted with Chris 's backside. He had been there before, but the first time was more like copping an undeserved opportunity, not a real possession. Now, caressing the musculature of his companion, hand slid into cleft, a move neither repulsed nor rejected, it felt like Michelangelo 's David, miraculously softened to the supple tenderness of flesh. Chris pulled Red Crow closer. A duel between cocks grown erect, a miracle in cold water and chilly night air, transformed Red Crow 's solemnity into a playful romp, signifying body- worship as a prelude to the prize that would be his.
Back in the camp, Peter Red Crow adjusted the lantern to its softest light and hung it on an overhanging branch of birch. They crept into the tent and snuggled in the sleeping bag.
Their nocturnal exertions, canoeing through waters as shadowy as any Styx, would have called less athletic men into sleep, but their spider-leg tent was haunted by some restless spirit (Was it Manitou?) who breathed into them a massive desire for each other, Peter Red Crow for Chris; Chris for Peter Red Crow. A sufflation, like when Father Andrew, at mass, blows softly over the feast of communion, transforming bread and wine into a new resurrection of flesh and blood. Anyone who doubts this miracle, anyone who obscures its transcendence by semantic quibbles about symbol versus substance, has yet to enjoy the deep core of passion that came to Peter Red Crow and to Chris. A sufflation of lust.
This is no metaphor, but an exact description. The miracle of communion, whether in the Church of St. John the Beloved or in a tent haunted by Manitou, pitched by the sandy shore of a nameless lake, where light from the lantern on a birch tree illuminated their bodies, a soft light, a moon transfixed, stopped from its circuit across the heavens, halted while lovers followed the course of nature. The cosmos stood still, awaiting their consummation.
The beauty of sex is neither blemished nor blighted by anatomical details. Nothing prevents Goran Bixo, the author, from raising the front flap of the tent to disclose how Peter Red Crow seized the initiative and the midsection of his companion; held him in place by the balls whilst stimulating nips and pits, axillingus being the `open sesame ' that would unlock the door to the secret chamber below. Or how Chris offered analingus, a sign that nothing was forbidden. Or how they embraced in mutual fellatio, head to groin and groin to head, while Red Crow took digital possession of his companion 's no-longer-secret chamber.
"You have a pleasant duty to perform, Red Crow, " Chris murmured. "I need another infusion of Ojibwe DNA. All in the cause of strengthening my connection to Simon. He knows we 're here. "
"Face to face? Doggy style? Tell me what you need, " Red Crow replied.
"Whatever you want, " Chris said. "Take your time. Remember our motto: Festina lente. "
Making haste slowly, Red Crow gained initial penetration doggy-style while Chris groaned and grunted. He wasn 't faking. The pain was real, but its dramatic expression increased the erotic sensation in his partner. They sidled and Red Crow fucked Chris from behind. Chris straddled his midsection and enveloped Ojibwe cock. When they fucked face to face, missionary style, Chris orgazzed. The jizzy aroma jump-started Red Crow 's orgasm. The liquefaction of Red Crow poured into Chris 's chamber.
They should have drifted into sleep, but Red Crow wanted Chris to explain his theory of gay breeding; his way of reveling in the second conquest of Chris 's ass. The first time was ritual, accompanied by the shaman; not quite what he could have chosen, had he been given a choice. The second conquest was his alone. His satisfaction was deepened by Red Crow 's belief that Simon was near and knew what the lovers were doing.
Chris went into his spiel: "Your semen is loaded with sperm. Each sperm cell brings a packet of DNA. The DNA is microscopic, and passes into my blood vessels. From there it diffuses everywhere in my body. I believe that the spirit, or the soul, is located in the DNA. The DNA is the bridge between body and soul. Breeding changes my body, and also my soul, because it now includes your physical substance. It 's the same miracle, whether it 's the bread and wine of communion or the consummation of sex. "
Nothing fascinated Peter Red Crow more than Chris 's mystic doctrine of sex. Nothing pleased him more than doctrine put into action. Especially when he was the beneficiary, for it is a truth almost universally acknowledged, except perhaps by bottoms, that giving is better than receiving.
When Peter Red Crow and Chris awoke after dawn, they were vaguely aware of a third presence in their tent.
"It 's Simon, " Peter whispered hoarsely. He was naked and fast asleep at their feet. "He must have waited until we finished making love, then crept into the tent. "
Suddenly they heard the report of a .22 rifle, fifty yards distant. Startled and terrified, Simon rushed out of the tent, dashed a hundred yards along the shore, and then circled back toward camp. Chris and Peter heard someone shout: "It 's Big Foot. Let 's bag him! " followed by another rifle shot.
"These meat-heads from Hibbing are so intent on batting a wild man that they can 't see the reality that 's in front of their eyes, " Chris remarked.
Peter Red Crow scrambled out of his tent with his crossbow. The two hunters from Hibbing stalked Simon as if they were stalking a deer. One of them was a loud-mouth. Chris recognized his voice from the bar in the lodge on the previous evening. He was stocky and red-nosed from years of boozing. He and his companion moved toward the shore to cut Simon off. Loud-Mouth was twenty feet from Simon when he raised his rifle and aimed.
Peter raise his crossbow and shot. A loud howl echoed across the bay as the arrow struck the butt of the rifle. The rifle hit the ground. Loud-Mouth bent over, stomped his feet, and complained about injuries to his shoulder and his hand. Neither he nor his companion knew that it was an archer who foiled their effort to shoot the `wild man '.
Loud-Mouth 's companion bent over to pick up the rifle. Peter shot a second arrow. It hit the barrel and sent the rifle spinning into the lake, where a splash on the surface was like a northern pike jumping in a jumble of weeds and lily pads.
"Simon! This way! You are still in danger! " Peter shouted. Simon recognized his brother 's voice. He ran to the camp, where Peter, Simon, and Chris took refuge behind a boulder near the lakeshore. Peter kept watch with his crossbow drawn.
They listened for movement in the underbrush. "The tent is still a target, " Peter warned, but Chris crawled there on his belly, and returned with their clothes, including clothing for Simon. With Peter in one canoe and Chris and Simon in the other, they made their way to an island that offered the cover of Norway pines, underbrush, and boulders. They pulled the canoes into a growth of brush. They claimed a formation of twin boulders as an observation post. The ruin of an ancient Norway towered over the boulders. It had been cut off at the crown by a bolt of lightning. A pair of bald eagles made their nest at the top. The eagles went fishing, ignoring the confusion of humans in conflict.
Peter, Simon, and Chris heard the whine of a motorboat coming from the other side of the point. The boat passed through the channel between the point and the island, and circled the bay, sticking close to the shore. This time, it was Loud-Mouth 's companion who had a rifle. It never occurred to the hunters that their prey had taken refuge on the island.
The motorboat spun away. Its whine could no longer be heard. Chris and Peter decided to abandon their tent and gear. They started homeward, with Peter in the first canoe and Chris and Simon in the other.
They canoed around another point. A shot rang out. The bullet caused a gaping hole in the second canoe and swung the paddle out of control, knocking Chris unconscious. He sank to the bottom of the lake. Simon dove after him, while Peter raised his crossbow and aimed for the motorboat. The boat was swamped. In the confusion, the motor got knocked loose from its wooden support and fell into the water. The boat capsized.
Meanwhile, Simon resurfaced and swam to the point, dragging Chris, who was still unconscious. Peter kept watch with is crossbow drawn, while Simon revived Chris by mouth-to- mouth resuscitation.
They made their escape in the remaining canoe. Simon sat in the back and provided the muscle. Chris sat up front and paddled as best he could, ignoring his head injury. Peter sat in the middle, crossbow at the ready. He was in better shape than the others, and could have moved the canoe along faster, but at the moment, his archery was needed as a defense against unknown dangers. The party of three made their way slowly, back to Burntside Lodge.
Peter said to Chris: "This gives new meaning to `Festina lente '. "