Lucius Shepard - The Ends of the Earth

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The Ends of the Earth

By Lucius Shepard

(Reprint, added 31 October 2002.)

The Ends of

the Earth

Lucius Shepard

Those whose office it is to debunk the supernatural are fond of pointing out that incidences of paranormal

activity most often take place in backwaters and rarely in the presence of credible witnesses, claiming

that this in itself is evidence of the fraudulent character of the phenomena involved; yet it has occurred to

me that the agents of the supernatural, especially those elements whose activities are directed toward evil

ends, might well exhibit reticence in appearing before persons capable of verifying their existence and

thus their threat to humankind. It seems surprising that such shadowy forces--if, indeed, they do

exist--choose to appear before any witnesses at all, and equally surprising--if their powers are as vast as

described in popular fiction--that they do not simply have done with us. Perhaps they are prevented from

doing so by some restraint, a limit, say, on how many souls they are allowed to bag, and perhaps the fact

that they manifest as they do is attributable to a binding regulation similar to the one dictating that

corporations (shadowy forces in themselves) must make a public notice of the date and location of their

stockholders' meetings. In order to avoid scrutiny of their business practices, a number of corporations

publish these notices in shoppers' guides and rural weeklies, organs unlikely to pass before the eyes of

government agencies and reporters, and it makes sense that the supernatural might emulate this tactic as a

means of compliance with some cosmic rule. That supposition may seem facetious, but my intent is quite

serious, for while I cannot say with absolute certainty whether the circumstances that provoked my

interest in these matters were in essence supernatural or merely an extraordinary combination of ordinary

people and events, I believe that six months ago in Guatemala, a place notable for its inaccessibility and

unreliable witnesses, I witnessed something rare and secret, something that may have reflected the

exercise of a regulatory truth pertaining to both the visible and invisible worlds.

Prior to leaving for Guatemala I had been romantically involved for the preceding three years with Karen

Maniaci, a married woman who managed a Manhattan art gallery, and it was our breakup, which was

marked by bitterness on my part and betrayal on hers, that persuaded me I needed a drastic change in

order to get on with living. This process of persuasion lasted several months, months during which I

wandered gloomily about New York, stopping in my tracks to stare at dark-haired women of

approximately five feet nine in height and 120 pounds; and at length I concluded that I had better get out

of town . . . either that or begin to play footsie with mental illness. I was thirty-seven and had grown too

cautious to want to risk myself in a dangerous enterprise; yet there is a theatricality inherent in being jilted,

a dramatic potential that demands resolution, and to satisfy it, I chose that other option of the

heartbroken: a trip to some foreign shore, one isolate from the rest of the world, where there were no

newspapers and no reminders of one's affair. Livingston, Guatemala, seemed to qualify as such. It was

described in a guidebook that I happened upon in The Strand bookstore as ". . . a quiet village at the

egress of the Río Dulce into the Caribbean, hemmed in against the sea by the Petén rain forest. Settled by

black Caribes and the descendants of East Indian slaves brought by the British to work the sugar

plantations upriver. There are no roads into Livingston. One reaches it either by ferry from Puerto

Morales or by powerboat from Reunión at the junction of the Río Dulce and the Petén highway. The

majority of the houses are neat white stucco affairs with red tile roofs. The natives are unspoiled by

tourism. In the hills above the village is a lovely tiered waterfall called Siete Altares (Seven Altars), so

named because of the seven pools into which the stream whose terminus it forms plunges on its way to

the sea. Local delicacies include turtle stew. . . ."

It sounded perfect, a paradise cut off from the grim political realities of the mother country, a place where

a man could go to seed in the classic style, by day wandering the beach in a Bogart suit, waking each

morning slumped over a table, an empty rum bottle beside his elbow, a stained deck of cards scattered

around him with only the queen of hearts showing its face. A few days after reading the guidebook entry,

following journeys by plane, train, and an overcrowded ferry, I arrived in Livingston. A few days after

that, thanks to a meeting in one of the bars, I took possession of a five-room house of yellow stucco

walls and concrete floors belonging to a young Spanish couple, doctors who had been studying with

local curanderos and wanted someone to look after their pets--a marmalade cat and a caged

toucan--while they toured for a year in the United States.

I have traveled widely all my life, and it has been my experience that guidebook descriptions bear little

relation to actual places; however, though changes had occurred--most notably the discovery of the

village by the singer Jimmy Buffett, whose frequent visits had given a boost to the tourist industry,

attracting a smattering of young travelers, mainly French and Scandinavians who lived in huts along the

beach--I discovered that the guidebook had not grossly exaggerated Livingston's charms. True, a

number of shanty bars had sprung up on the beach, and there was a roach-infested hotel not mentioned

in the book: three stories of peeling paint and cell-sized rooms furnished with torn mattresses and broken

chairs. But the Caribe houses were in evidence, and the turtle stew was tasty, and the fishing was good,

and Siete Altares was something out of a South Seas movie, each pool shaded by ceiba trees, their

branches dripping with orchids, hummingbirds flitting everywhere in the thickets. And the natives were

relatively unspoiled, perhaps because the tourists kept to the beach, which was separated from the village

by a steep drop-off and which--thanks to the bars and a couple of one-room stores--provided them with

all the necessities of life.

Early on I suffered a domestic tragedy. The cat ate the toucan, leaving its beak and feet for me to find on

the kitchen floor. But in general, things went well. I began to work, my mind was clearing, and the edge

had been taken off my gloom by the growing awareness that other possibilities for happiness existed

apart from a neurotic career woman who was afraid to trust her feelings, was prone to anxiety attacks

and given to buying bracelets with the pathological avidity that Imelda Marcos once displayed toward the

purchase of shoes. I soon fell into a pleasant routine, writing in the mornings, working on a cycle of short

stories that--despite my intention of avoiding this pitfall--dealt with an unhappily married woman.

Afternoons, I would he in a hammock strung between two palms that sprouted from the patio of the

house, and read. Evenings, I would stroll down to the beach with the idea of connecting with one of the

tourist girls. I usually wound up drinking alone and brooding, but I did initiate a flirtation with an Odille

LeCleuse, a Frenchwoman in her late twenties, with high cheekbones and milky skin, dark violet eyes

and a sexy mouth that always looked as if she were about to purse her lips. She was in thrall--or so I'd

heard--to Carl Konwicki, an Englishman of about my own age, who had lived on the beach for two

years and supported himself by selling marijuana.

By all reports, Konwicki was a manipulator who traded on his experience to dominate less-seasoned

travelers in order to obtain sex and other forms of devotion, and I couldn't understand how Odille, an

intelligent woman with a degree in linguistics from the Sorbonne, could have fallen prey to the likes of

him. I spotted him every day on the streets of the village: an asthenic olive-skinned man, with a scraggly

fringe of brown beard and a hawkish Semitic face. He commonly wore loose black trousers, an

embroidered vest, and a Moroccan skullcap, and there was a deliberate languor to his walk, as if he

were conscious of being watched; whenever he would pass by, he would favor me with a bemused smile.

I felt challenged by him, both because of Odille and because my morality had been enlisted by what I'd

heard of his smarmy brand of gamesmanship, and I had the urge to let him know I saw through his pose.

But realizing that--if Odille was involved with him--this kind of tactic would only damage my chances

with her, I restrained myself and ignored him.

One night about two months after my arrival, I was going through old notebooks, searching for a passage

that I wanted to include in a story, when a sheet of paper with handwriting on it slipped from between the

pages and fell to the floor. The handwriting was that of my ex-lover, Karen. I let it lie for a moment, but

finally, unable to resist, I picked it up and discovered it to be a letter written early in the relationship. A

portion read as follows:

. . . When I went to the therapist today (I know . . . I'll probably tell you all this on the phone later,

but what the hell!), I told her about what happened, bow I almost lost my job by making love to

you those days in the office, and she didn't seem terribly surprised. When I asked her how a

responsible adult who cares about her job could possibly jeopardize it in such a way, she simply

said that there must have been a great deal of gain in it for me. It seems she's trying to lead me

toward you--she's quite negative about Barry. But that's probably just wishful thinking--what she's

doing is trying to lead me toward what I want. Of course what I want is you, so it amounts to the

same thing.

It was curious, I thought, scanning the letter, how words that had once seemed precious could now seem

so vapid. I noted the overusage of the words terribly and terrible, particularly in conjunction with the

words surprising and surprised. That had been her basic reaction to falling in love, I realized. She had

been terribly surprised. My God, she'd said to herself. An emotion! Quick, I'll hie me to the head

doctor and have it excised. I read on.

. . . I can't imagine living without you, Ray. When you said something the other day about the

possibility of getting hit by a bus, I suddenly got this awful chill. I had a terrible sense of loss just

hearing you say that. This is interesting in that I used to try to figure out if I loved Barry by

imagining something awful happening to him and seeing how I felt. I usually felt bad, but that's

about it. . . .

I laughed out loud. The last I'd heard on the subject was that Barry, who bored Karen, whom she did

not respect, who had recently gotten into rubber goods, was back in favor. Barry had one virtue that I

did not: he was controllable, and in control there was security. She could go on lying to him, having affairs

with no fear of being caught--Barry was big into denial. And now she was planning a child in an attempt

to pave over the potholes of the relationship, convincing herself that this secure fake was the best she

could expect of life. She was due fairly soon, I realized. But it didn't matter. No act of hers could bring

conscience and clarity into what had always been a charade. Her lies had condemned the three of us, and

most of all she had condemned herself by engaging in a kind of method living, chirping a litany of

affirmation. "I think I can, I think I can," playing The Little Adultress That Could, and thus losing the hope

of her heart, the strength of her soul. I imagined her at sixty-five, her beauty hardened to a grotesque

brittleness, wandering through a mall, shopping for drapes thick enough to blot out the twenty-first

century, while Barry shuffled along in her wake, trying to pin down the feeling that something had not

been quite right all these years, both of them smiling and nodding, looking forward to a friendly gray fate.

The letter brought back the self-absorbed anguish that I'd been working to put behind me, and I felt--as I

had for months prior to leaving New York--on the verge of exploding, as if a pressure were building to a

hot critical mass inside me, making my thoughts flurry like excited atoms. My face burned; there were

numbing weights in my arms and legs. I paced the room, unable to regain my composure, and after ten

minutes or so, I flung open the door, frightening the marmalade cat, and stormed out into the dark.

I did not choose a direction, but soon I found myself on the beach, heading toward one of the shanty

bars. The night was perfect for my mood. Winded: a constant crunch of surf and palm fronds tearing;

combers rolling in, their plumed sprays as white as flame. A brilliant moon flashed between the fronds,

creating shadows from even the smallest of projections, and set back from the shore, half-hidden in deep

shadow among palms and sea grape and cashew trees, were huts with glinting windows and tin roofs.

The beach was a ragged, narrow strip of tawny sand strewn with coconut litter and overturned cayucos.

As I stepped over a cayuco, something croaked and leaped off into the rank weeds bordering the beach.

My heart stuttered, and I fell back against the cayuco. It had only been a frog, but its appearance made

me aware of my vulnerability. Even a place like Livingston had its dangers. Street criminals from Belize

had been known to ride motorboats down from Belize City or Belmopan to rob and beat the tourists,

and in my agitated state of mind I would have made the perfect target.

The bar--Café Pluto--was set in the lee of a rocky point: a thatched hut with a sand floor and picnic-style

tables, lit with black lights that emitted an evil purple radiance and made all the gringos glow like

sunburned corpses. Reggae from a jukebox at the rear was barely audible above the racket of the

generator. I had several drinks in rapid succession and ended up out front of the bar beside a toppled

palm trunk, drinking rum straight from the bottle and sharing a joint with Odille and a young blond

Australian named Ryan, who was writing a novel and whose mode of dress--slacks, shirt, and loosened

tie--struck an oddly formal note. I was giddy with the dope, with the wildness of the night, the vast

blue-dark sky and its trillion watts of stars, silver glitters that appeared to be slipping around like sequins

on a dancer's gown. Behind us the Café Pluto had the look of an eerie cave lit by seams of gleaming

purple ore.

I asked Ryan what his novel was about, and with affected diffidence he said, "Nothing much. Saturday

night in a working-class bar in Sydney." He took a hit of the joint, passed it to Odille. "It wasn't going too

well, so I thought I'd set it aside and do something poetic. Run away to the ends of the earth." He had a

look around, a look that in its casual sweep included the sea and sky and shore. "This is the ends of the

earth, isn't it?"

I was caught by the poignancy of the image, thinking that he had inadvertently captured the essence of

place and moment. I pictured the globe spinning and spinning, trailing dark frays of its own essential stuff,

upon one of which was situated this slice of night and stars and expatriate woe, tatters with no real place

in human affairs. . . . Wind veiled Odille's face with a drift of hair. I pushed it back, and she smiled, letting

her eyelids droop. I wanted to take her back to the house and fuck her until I forgot all the maudlin

bullshit that had been fucking me over the past three years.

"I hear you're doing some writing, too," said Ryan in a tone that managed to be both defiant and

disinterested.

"Just some stories," I said, surprised that he would know this.

" 'Just some stories.' " He gave a morose laugh and said to the sky, "He's modest . . . I love it." Then,

turning a blank gaze on me: "No need to hide your light, man. We all know you're famous."

"Famous? Not hardly."

"Sure you are!" In a stentorian voice he quoted a blurb on my last book. " 'Raymond Kingsley, a

mainstay of American fiction.' "

"Uh-huh, right."

"Even the Master of Time and Space thinks you're great," said Ryan. "And believe me, he's sparing with

his praise."

"Who're you talking about?"

Ryan pointed behind me. "Him."

Carl Konwicki was coming down the beach. He ambled up, dropped onto the fallen palm trunk, and

looked out to sea. Odille and Ryan seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Irritated by this obeisance, I

belched. Konwicki let his eyes swing toward me, and I winked.

"How's she going?" I took a man-sized slug of rum, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and fixed

him with a mean stare. He clucked his tongue against his teeth and said, "I'm fine, thank you."

"Glad to hear it." Drunk, I hated him, my hate fueled by the frustration that had driven me out of the

house. Hate was chemical between us, the confrontational lines as sharply etched as the shadows on the

sand. I gestured at his skullcap. "You lived in Morocco?"

"Some."

"What part?"

"You know . . . around." The wind bent a palm frond low, and for an instant, Konwicki's swarthy face

was edged by a saw-toothed shadow.

"That's not very forthcoming," I said. "Do questions bother you?"

"Not ones that have a purpose."

"How about light conversation . . . that a worthwhile purpose?"

"Is that your purpose?"

"What else would it be?"

"Wow!" said Ryan. "This is like intense . . . like a big moment."

Odille giggled.

"I got it," I said. "What would you like to talk about? How about the translation you're doing . . . what is

it?"

"The Popol Vuh," said Konwicki distractedly.

"Gee," I said. "That's already been translated, hasn't it?"

"Not correctly."

"Oh, I see. And you're going to do it right." I had another pull on the rum bottle. "Hope you're not

wasting your time."

"Time." Konwicki smiled, apparently amused by the concept; he refitted his gaze to the toiling sea.

"Yeah," I said, injecting a wealth of sarcasm into my voice. "It's pretty damn mind-bending, isn't it?"

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