COVID CAPERS
creating pandemic peril in a whimsical world
THE DEMARCATION ZONE
Editor Barbara J. Becker
LINGUISTIC FINGERPRINTS EDITION: 2021
Compilation copyright ©2021: Barbara J. Becker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Photo: courtesy Pat Stefanchuk. Photographer Kevin Dennis
Pat Stefanchuk wrote:
"The ruins are a part of my family history. The deMerle ruins were a fortress for the deMerle family in the Middle Ages. It is located in southern France. They were French Huguenots who were basically run out of France around 1500 & fled to England where they took up residence around Shakespeare’s residence, along the Avon River. Less than 50 years later a branch of the family emigrated to New York. Of course when they got to England they changed their name to Merrell so they wouldn’t be taken for French Catholics. After Robert Merrell got to the USA his extended family moved around. Some went to New Jersey, others to the New England area. That branch became United Empire Loyalists during the American Revolution & fled to Nova Scotia & finally to southern Ontario where they had fruit orchards. My dad’s grandfather brought his family of 20 to Manitoba (Wawanesa) in the late 1800’s."
Oprah Winfrey 2002. O Magazine.
"Worry is a misuse of imagination"
CONTRIBUTORS
BARBARA J. BECKER writes and edits stories. She lives in Winnipeg. Recent works are the Measured Words trilogy, and assorted articles to the Manitoba Genealogical Society magazine, Generations, editor David Farmer. Barbara wrote the same introduction to all of the Covid Caper stories and then let them happen.
BARBARA LINKLATER is a talented author and artist. Barbara works in elementary, as well as high school, teaching Art, and her works grace the walls of many homes. She lives in Winnipeg with her awesome feline friend, Fiona.
BARBARA E. WEBB is a creative writer who lives in Winnipeg. She is a master at giving her stories a unique twist. She is a valued member of the Seniors’ Writing Group.
RON VERT a retired clergy member, originally from the United States of America, has turned to writing fiction, and is currently working on a fantasy
The steps did not go straight up. There was a curve, ever so slight, to the right. You had to place your foot squarely in the center. The edges collected moss and did not offer a solid footing. The air was damp and heavy to breath. The light from a single torch ricocheted off the stone wall, swirling and dancing in the surrounding gloom. A splayed hand tapped the stair wall for purchase keeping time to the roll of numbers off the tongue. …twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty… thirty-one…thirty-two…. The landing was small and rectangular – flat grey slate, barely large enough for a small person. Rock walls formed two sides with a solid heavy wood door directly ahead. An ornate serpent handle controlled a slotted closure. With a heavy pull the door swung open. A further five steps and it was done. The door slammed shut.
“Chester, are we okay now?”
Relieved to hear her speak, he gently lowered her from his back and turning said, “Hwa Young, I am going to put you on my shoulders. I want you to tell me what you see above the timber that crosses the top of the door. If there is rope, I want you to pull it over the timber.”
He gently lifted the child to his shoulders, carefully reaching up to hold her back with one arm and her legs with the other.
“I see the rope, Chester. I can pull it over the timber .”
Putting the child down, he moved her away from the thick Oak door and swinging his sword he sliced the rope. The huge timber fell into its iron cradle and the passage was blocked. Ancient and rusted serpentine claws held the timber in place. They were strong but he knew they could not withstand the blast that was surely coming. They were safe, for now, and he could rest.
It was a small space, and a dim light was coming from the tunnel before them. It must lead upwards. Good. The demarcation line must be above them, but what surprises that tunnel might hold was, well, scary.
He turned to the child, and she looked straight back at him with a trust that strengthened his resolve. He did not know if they would get out, but he would not give up. They were so close now.
He tucked his pack under and around her, trying to protect her from the cold and damp stone floor.
Sky blue eyes shone out above the ruined cheek as she reached out with her good arm splaying her tiny fingers against the wall, just as she had seen him do so many, many times.
“The counting has not stopped, Chester. I can feel it. It is beating in the wall”.
“Hwa Young, you are a clever, beautiful, little flower”.
“No, Chester, do not call me that. I am not beautiful, little flower. Hwa Young? She is gone. She is gone with her family. I am Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ...ugly weed. That is who I am now.”
Her unlikely outburst made him smile. Incredible blue eyes, the thick coal-black hair and pure sweetness made him think he was protecting Snow White, an Asian Snow White. This thought made him smile again. Her whole left side, damaged by the fires could never be repaired, he knew it. He also knew, it didn’t matter. She would always lean towards the full half of the glass.
“Well, Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ugly weed, the Meadow Lark may be scorched by fire, but her song is still beautiful. Right? The fire could not steal her beauty.
You little Beautiful Flower, Hwa Young, you must never deny the name your parents gave you. Nothing will ever be able to steal your beauty.”
As he reached out to touch her wrinkled cheek, an explosion sounded somewhere behind him.
Then the director shouted, “Cut! What in the hell was that?” He whirled and glared at the crew.
“Sorry, sorry,” one of the grips apologized. “A light blew. I can fix it in a couple of minutes.”
“Well, hurry up. We’re already running late. Take 10 everyone.”
The actors stepped off the set. Patrick Marshall, whose part of Chester came after other successful roles in period action movies, offered his hand to his 8 year old co-star who was on her first movie shoot.
“Come, sit,” he encouraged her. “Rest while you can.”
Lily sat, then pulled off the wig that concealed her natural blond hair.
“This thing’s itchy,” she complained.
“But it’s part of your everlasting beauty,” Patrick teased, “along with all that inner stuff. You need to put it back on.”
“It’s hot too.” The girl scratched her hair, causing it to stand out in all directions. Meeting Patrick’s amused glance, she plunked it back on her head, wiggling it around, trying to make it more comfortable.
The hairdresser miraculously appeared, smoothed Lily’s hair, fussed with the wig for a couple of minutes, then declared the tiny star was again ready for action. Lily wasn’t ready—she started rubbing her eyes and declared, “I hate these contacts. They make my eyes hurt.”
“They can be nasty when you’re not used to them,” Patrick sympathized, “but sky blue eyes and coal black hair; that’s what makes you Snow White, beautiful little flower and not ugly weed.”
“We’re ready,” the director announced. “Places.” Lily and Patrick moved back into the cramped space, huddling together. The director stepped in. “Now remember, you can see the way out, but you don’t know what’s between here and there. Chester, you’re determined to protect Hwa Young. And Young, you trust him to do that, so do whatever he tells you. Move your hand along the wall, feeling for the counting. It hasn’t stopped.”
He turned away and shouted, Lights—ready, good. Let’s go. Quiet. And Action!”
Chester and Hwa Young continued huddling in the cramped space. They needed some rest before continuing deeper into the tunnel toward the exit leading into the Kingdom of Baekje, a vassal of Pyongyang, in the Goguryeo Kingdom. They had no idea if they could walk toward the exit freely or if traps lay before them.
“Let’s rest for a moment, first, I am going to make a torch. Stay here,” commanded Chester.
Hwa Young could hear him stumble about in the darkness. She heard him curse.
“What’s wrong, Chester?”
“Nothing just hit my knee on something. I’m coming back.”
Chester returned and began making the torch. When completed he used his flint to get the torch burning. The light revealed the chaotic obstacles of fallen pillars and stones. Chester huddled next to the girl, not really asking her, but more to himself, said, “What is this place?”
“I think I know, Chester. My father talked about this place many times as our ancestors were held captive here,” she explained. “The tunnel was a trading entrance dug in the stone mountains between the Kingdom of Baekje, and the City-State Gaya. If there was trouble the gates and barriers would be shut until the trouble abated. Most of the conflict originated with the warlords of Gaya. Whoever controlled the entrance controlled the tax revenue. The line of demarcation separated the tax collectors of the respective kingdoms.
The tunnel was dug through solid stone of the stone hills under the Warlord Kon-won. He used his captured enemies, political opponents, and even family members, as slaves to construct the tunnel. He was a cruel and considered insane.
Chester laid against the tunnel wall listening to Hwa Young’s story. The flickering torch light revealed the years of neglect to a once ornately decorated place of commerce between the kingdoms. The decorative pillars supporting the tunnel ceiling had fallen becoming the obstacles to overcome. The pillars hindered a quick retreat from their pursuers, but gave protection from them, as well. All was quiet outside. Hwa Young’s soft voice was the only sound except for dripping water echoing in the cave.
The shouts of men at the Great Door startled Chester awake. He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping nor if it was morning or night. Hiding in a dark tunnel a person loses all sense of time. Chopping sounds could be heard among the orders being shouted by various commanders outside the Great Doors. Suddenly all was quiet until he heard, “Set the explosives and blow up those doors.”
“Hwa Young, wake up we’ve got to move quickly,” Chester gently nudged her. He could only see the outline of her face as the torch was beginning to fade.
“Did I hear men’s voices, Chester? What are they doing outside?”
“King Guenchogo’s men are going to blow up the Great Doors. We have to move further into the tunnel. We must hurry. Whether we have crossed the demarcation line, or not, they are going to pursue us. Can you find the count?”
“I feel it in the wall. The moss is not as thick here, so the beat is stronger. We will be safe as long as we stay next to the wall. Keep your hands splayed as you follow the beat and its count. If we deviate too far or stray with the wrong count, we shall be lost or destroyed.”
Hwa Young splayed her tiny hand on the tunnel wall finding beat thirty-eight. There were other beats designed to confuse those not versed in the legend of the Tao. Chester lifted her on to his back. Walking for Hwa Young was not impossible, but in a dark tunnel there are too many obstacles through the years of decay. Walking would be too strenuous given her injury from a few years ago. This was not the time to be slow with an explosion imminent.
The beat within the tunnel had been infused by a Taoist priest who had been enslaved by Kon-won. The legend says,
“Walk in darkness to the light of freedom.
Count your blessing two-hundred and forty-nine times
only those bereft of hope shall find hope.
Your way is numbered, let not walls be a barrier.
They shall help and guide you if you become one with the earth.”
Hwa Young whispered those words into Chester’s ear as they made their way along the now damp and slimy walls of the tunnel. Darkness surrounded them. The wall was all they could follow. Chester bore the burden of the journey; Hwa Young knew the beat. She knew the hope. She was one with the earth.
Suddenly the great doors exploded allowing a dust diffused sunlight to flood the entry way.
King Guenchogo, himself, led the attack. He looked formidable wearing a helmet that covered his face, a large breastplate, and his thick battle robes. His stature made the men surrounding him seem small in comparison. He entered the tunnel allowing his eyes to adjust. He caught sight of some movement.
The King called out, “Chester-seonsaeng, return my property and I will spare your life.”
Chester didn’t answer. The King ordered his archers to fire.
Chester had been climbing over a fallen column when an arrow struck him in the back of his thigh. The painful shock caused him to lose his grip falling to the pillar’s other side. Hwa Young fell to the tunnel floor uninjured. Chester didn’t cry out, but Hwa Young heard him softly groan with pain. She knew he was bleeding as she could feel the sticky warmth on her hands.
The King shouted his order, “Go after them. He is wounded.”
The men began their pursuit. Chester begged Hwa Young, “Run, save yourself.”
“No, Chester, believe the Tao legend; there is hope here in the darkness.”
The King’s soldiers were advancing with swords drawn. One soldier called out, “Majesty, I think I hear them.”
The King called out, “Don’t hurt my property, but Chester-seonsaeng’s life matters not to me.”
“Flee, Hwa Young. The soldiers are almost here,” ordered Chester as he grimaced each word in pain.
“No, Chester, believe the legend; it is our only hope.”
It was the first time he ever heard defiance in Hwa Young’s voice.
As the soldiers advanced towards the couple from the center path to where they lay; the tunnel floor opened up. The death cries of crushed or impaled men echoed in the tunnel.
The King and remaining soldiers were confounded daring not to venture further. The King ordered a soldier to fire a flaming arrow so he could see what happened. The arrow abruptly diverted from the original target, finding a soldier who survived the floor’s collapse in the subterranean pit.
The King became infuriated at the soldier.
“Commander Jeong kill this fool.”
The pleas of innocence from the soldier were no more.
“Chester-seonsaeng, you will not live to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” roared the King.
The confusion gave time for Chester to remove the arrow and bandage his wound. Once the bandage was in place, Chester whispered to Hwa Young, “Come, get on my back. We must keep moving. What appears to be a short distance can be a long journey. Who knows what we face up ahead?”
“The beat is stronger, Chester; believe in the Tao. It has saved us already,” reminded Hwa Young.
A voice called out, “Cut—that’s all for today people.”
Sitting in the big soft chair, she wondered at all that was around her. Big things were bigger and soft things were softer. Everything was shiny and clean. Even the floors were shiny and clean. She wondered if the even most-high police force in her country would be able to find even one tiny little piece of dirt on this floor. Looking around, she thought, perhaps, perhaps in that corner, if, you took a thin blade of a knife, if, you passed it into the crevasse under that floor board, then, maybe, you might be able to find one piece of stupid dirt. Too stupid to not leave this place of clean.
She looked at the immense desk, black mahogany, its clean smooth lines gleaming in shafts of light coming from a wall of windows. The potted palms at either side bemused her. Why? Why put trees in an office? ‘Office she thought of the word. Her home, and the home of her halmeoni, and the home of Ji Ho, would all fit into this office. This whole new world she found herself in was so confusing for her. She understood so little of it, and the hole in her chest where her family belonged ached. Tears welled up and she shrank further into the immense soft chair, wanting to be swallowed up, wanting to disappear.
“Hwa Young, we did it! You did it! Look at this kiddo! ”
You are going to be the youngest EVER to win an Academy Award. This is magic, kid, just plain magic”.
Walking into the office he couldn’t immediately see her as he crossed cherry wood floors approaching the great bruised – leather arm chairs, facing the desk, facing away from him, and holding the bruised child.
Sliding into Steven’s seat, and finally looking up, shock gripped him. “ Hwa Young?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Brad. I need to go home.” And he watched as the tears poured from those amazing blue eyes.
He crouched down before her and reaching, took those tiny hands in his.
“Hwa Young, how many times do I have to say it, ... Brad, just Brad? Hwa Young, you know that your home is ... is ... well, its, ... its, not there anymore Hwa Young. You know that, right?”
He wanted to give her a hug but something in those eyes stopped him. A sense, a feeling, something like trespassing came over him. A feeling of taking over where others belonged. All she had lost was about to overcome him when, reality focused his thoughts and, he took her into his arms.
“Hwa Young, come here. Your family, and Chester, they are not gone, they are right here”. He patted her heart, “...and here”, he added as he patted his own heart. “They will always be with you. What you do with your life will honour them. They will live in the choices you make”.
But Mr., eh, Brad, I am full of shame. That story we told it is not true. They would be full of shame for me.
We were not in the demilitarization zone, you know that. We were in the tunnels below.
Ch ... ”. Her voice choked on the name. “ Chester saved my life in the tunnels below. He said we were crossing the demarcation line and we would be safe and he saved my life. You know this, Brad. He saved my life.”
Brad shook his head, stood and wondered how he could explain ‘Hollywood’.
“Hwa Young. It’s Background. It’s only the background we changed. You have nothing to be ashamed of. This story we told is the true story of your family. It is true. We will bring your family’s story to the world.
The thing is, the world wants adventure when they go to the movies. We needed to make the background more ... well dramatic.
Crossing two and a half miles of territory, with wild tigers and black bears and armed stations posted on both perimeters is a lot more exciting that crawling two and a half miles through a tunnel.
We told the story with truth Hwa Young. We just changed the background … a bit ... at the very ... at the end of the story ...”. The reproach in her eyes made him stutter as he realized what he was saying. She stopped him with the bald truth.
“Background, Brad? Chester is dead in the tunnel. He is dead and I am alive. Is that not enough? Is that not enough for the watchers of this story of my family?”
With that Steven fairly danced through the door.
“It’s grand, it might be the absolute best thing we’ve ever put together. WOW! ... ”, and catching the scene before him, he froze in his absolute delight.
“What’s going on?”
Brad straightened up, and facing his friend said, “Steven, we have to talk; you gotta change the ending.”
“Wha... wha, Brad, what are you saying?”
Hwa Young answered for him. “It is the background, Mr. Steven. The background is lying.”
“I’m confused.” Steven tugged the ball cap from his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you mean the background is lying? The background is the background. It’s the story that’s important and the background has to support that.”
“But it isn’t the truth,” the girl insisted.
“I’m still confused,” Steven continued. There is no truth here; truth can be what I want it to be in the interest of telling an exciting story.”
A tear trickled down Lily’s cheek.
Steven went on. “You’re an actor, a damn good one for an 8 year old. But still an actor. It seems I’m not the only one who’s confused. Look ... here comes your mother. Maybe she can help sort things out.”
He patted her cheek, then turned away. “ I need you to be at the top of your game tomorrow. It’s the last day of shooting.”
Patrick Marshall arrived at the sound stage for an early morning make-up and wardrobe call. The makeup, alone, would require three hours before he could be in costume and on set. Walking through the doors a voice called out, “Hey Patrick, what are you doing here? Didn’t you get the notice from the Big Wigs?”
“What notice? I wasn’t informed of anything. Where are you anyway?”
Jason laughed. “Sorry, look up.”
The grip was working on the lighting when Patrick arrived. He was trying to make sure another light didn’t blow as one had a couple of days ago. “Hold on Patrick, I’m coming down.”
Jason is quite agile moving through the lighting tracks and going up and down the ladders. It was like watching Tarzan fly through the jungle. In an instant, Jason is standing before Patrick.
“You know, Jason, you amaze me how you can move so quickly.”
“It comes with practice. So, you didn’t get the message about the delay?”
“No! What’s going on?”
“I don’t know for sure, but the “Big Wigs” are meeting with Lily, and her mother, to discuss a possible script change.”
“Sheesh, I hope not. We are down to the final scenes. Today is supposed to be our last day of shooting. Why now after all these months.”
“Who knows for sure, but it’s all about money and what a movie will make at the box office.”
“Yeah, I know. One day you’re a star, adored, and the next day a nobody, if the movie bombs.”
“True, but you and Lily are great actors – Oscar nominees. You’ll get other auditions.”
“Do you think the movie will be scraped?”
“I hope not, for all our sakes. We have an exciting movie that will intrigue movie goers.”
“Who are the Big Wigs?”
“All I know is our Producer and Director were called to a 10am meeting.”
“That means four hours till they meet.”
“Why don’t you go to the Commissary. Have some breakfast. If I hear anything, I will have you paged.”
“I guess that’s all I can do. You get back to work. See ya later.
“Amico mio, Ciao.”
Patrick, exiting the sound stage, noticed the movie lot was bustling as other productions were preparing to begin. He had to dodge and swerve stagehands moving racks of costumes and props to the various sound stages on the lot. The sight always amazed Patrick, as to the number of people it took to produce a movie, let alone one scene.
The Commissary was busier than he thought it would be. A line for the buffet was about a 15-minute wait which was not a problem since he had nowhere else to go. He chose his breakfast items, found a table,, and began studying his lines while eating.
Patrick realized by 11:30 am that production probably wouldn’t take place today. He wondered what inspired the Big Wigs to consider a possible script change. The sound stage would be his next stop. If there is no activity, or the Director isn’t there, he is going home. Just as he was preparing to leave, he saw Lily and her mother. He hurried over to her.
“Good Morning, Lily, and this is your mother, I presume?”
“Yes, this is my Mom. Mommy this is Patrick Marshall, the star of our movie”
Patrick blushed, “You are a star too, but nice to meet you, Lily’s mom. Do you know what’s going on with the production?”
Lily’s mother said, “Yes, can we get some brunch and join you?”
“Yes, by all means. I am over by the window. I’ll get an extra chair while you are going through the buffet line.”
It wasn’t long before Lily and her mother joined Patrick. He smiled as he saw what Lily had on her plate. A sausage patty, cottage cheese with fruit cocktail on top, and a piece of toast.
“Think you can eat all that, Lily?” teased Patrick.
“Oh, yeah,” she smiled, “This is my favorite combination.”
“Now, tell me, what’s going on?” asked Patrick.
Lily’s mom answered, “The real Hwa Young was in the Producers office. She had been privileged to see the outtakes of the screenplay that was developed out of her real-life story. The woman was having a hard time understanding the concept of a story where history repeats itself in previous generations.”
“I didn’t realize the movie’s direction until the tunnel scenes. So, I can understand her confusion.” said Patrick.
“Hwa Young was fearful that her family, and her teacher rescuer, Chester, would be dishonored because it was all a lie in her eyes. I think they got through to her.” explained Lily’s mother.
“So why were you involved in the meeting?” asked Patrick?
“Oh, those guys! That Brad, and Steven person, had Hwa Young and my daughter’s identity all confused. They kept calling my daughter Hwa Young because they are so excited that she was nominated for an Oscar, and Hwa Young was receiving a Pulitzer. Since my daughter is a minor, I was there to negotiate a possible script change, and sign publicity release forms. I think I straightened them out. Have you ever met Hwa Young?”
“No, I have not had the pleasure.” said Patrick.
“I hope you do. You would almost think she was a child, if you were to see her.”
Patrick and Lily’s mother’s lively conversation was interrupted, “Cast and crew for “The Demarcation Zone,” report to sound stage. I repeat ...”
Patrick hated moving. So many people hiding all his “stuff” from him. Putting his “stuff” everywhere he didn’t want it put, and changing all his good old “stuff” with new, nice and shiny, “stuff.” They think he doesn’t notice, but oh, he notices … AND..., dammit, where is his hammer?
He stormed across his new ‘sunken’ floored office, tripped over the Italian Marbled steps descending to the front of the fireplace, and took a dive onto a thickly carpeted floor. “Dammit, Dammit ... Dammit … Dammit! Since when do floors sink?” His shouting brought 2 packers and Molly hurrying into the room.
“Sir”? Molly asked, trying to suppress her smile. He looked so comical, her elegant boss, standing there in his socks, with his shirt hanging out, his snowy hair (what was left of it) electrified in all directions. He brought Albert Einstein to her mind.
The Packers froze at his dangerous glare. Molly scurried down the cool marbled steps encircling the old man, as he glared at the two packers.
“So, are you two getting paid to stare at old fallen movie stars, or to hide his belongings all over this monstrosity we will so lovingly come to call home”?
Molly’s bright smiles and quick reaction started to settle his ruffled feathers. Nodding at the two startled men, she told them to just continue with their work. Everything was fine.
“Where’s Mary?”
“Where’s my hammer, dammit?”
“This Poster is getting put up over that fireplace. That is an end to it. Dammit! It’s my office, my fireplace, and dammit, it’s my poster. Mary can do whatever she wants with the rest of the house, but this is going over my fireplace.
As she walked away, a grinning Molly added the “Dammit!”
“Mrs. Marshall is on her way. Her flight lands this afternoon at 4:00, and Simon will be leaving to pick her up shortly. Your new home is gorgeous, Mr. Marshall, and you will soon come to love Scotland. Now, I will get you your hammer and you can hang that poster anywhere your stubborn heart desires.”
She made him smile, that little Molly. So much like Lilly in so many ways. Sometimes, just a quick turn of her head would tug at his heart with memories of Lilly. He thanked God for the attachment that Mary had formed with her.
Staring down at the once beautifully mounted poster with the small black and white photo centered in the bottom matt, he relaxed into his favorite easy chair in front of the fire.
THE DEMARCATION ZONE
Mary, Lilly, and Hwa Young, arms around each other, looked up at him through the grainy glass. It was the morning he met Mary. It was literally the first day of the rest of his life. He rubbed his thumb along the splintered frame and let the memories come pouring back.
For the most part they were good memories. His successful career had spanned more than three decades but like most actors he had experienced ups and downs, successes and failures. “The Demarcation” fell somewhere between the two extremes. Patrick remembered the challenging shoot and the eleventh hour script changes that left the actors scrambling to learn new lines.
And he certainly remembered Lily. She’d been only eight when the movie was made: a charming child with an abundance of natural talent. Her star had blazed white hot until she aged out of the child parts that had become her trademark. Her fans demanded nothing else and after starring roles in a couple of teen rom coms that Rotten Tomatoes had panned, Lily screamed her way through some low budget slasher flicks and then faded from the public eye.
Patrick stared at the poster, lost in thought. Could its damaged state somehow reflect what had happened to his young friend? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been in touch with Lily and had no idea where she was or what her current life was like. He resolved to find out.
Two years have passed since Patrick resolved to find Lily. He contacted his solicitor in Glasgow to help him. The solicitor in turn hired the same detective who arrested Lily’s mother ten years ago. It was soon after this surprising event that Lily disappeared. Patrick assumed she was heart-broken surrounding the circumstances.
Patrick was returning from his daily walk about in Johnstone. The post arrived delivering some packages. As Patrick drew near the Postman called to him, “Patrick, I have a certified letter for you. You have to sign for it.”
Patrick was puzzled at first until he saw the return address, “Thank you, Rory, I haven’t heard from my solicitor in two years. I wonder what he has to say?”
“You’ll never know until you open it. First you need to sign for it.”
“Oh ... right ... thanks.”
Patrick signed the registry and bid Rory a good day. He entered his office standing before the fireplace where the poster still hung. Precious moments always flooded his mind as he stared at the movie poster, “The Demarcation Zone.” His hands trembled as he broke the seal of the envelope. At first, he couldn’t quite comprehend the letter’s content. It was just a momentary shock. The solicitor has discovered Lily’s whereabouts. He would like to see Patrick in his Glasgow office within the next two weeks.
Patrick immediately rang up his solicitor, set the date, and began making travel arrangements by train. The Glasgow trip would take an hour; he would stay overnight and leave to find Lily the following day.
The Solicitor revealed that Lily was living in Hugh Town on St. Mary’s Island in the Isles of Scilly under the name of Lillian Brodie. She has a bungalow at 145 Church Road, approximately 5 kilometers from the ferry landing. The private investigator hadn’t revealed much other than to say she has a daily routine of leaving her home at 6:00 am and returning at approximately 7:00 pm. He attempted no contact with her. Patrick was pleased with this bit of news. The solicitor also revealed that he had inherited five-thousand pound, sterling, from an uncle of Mary’s. The documents had to be signed before the bank notes could be transferred.
Patrick said to his solicitor, “This is my lucky day.”
The trip on the Cross-Country Train, from Edinburgh, via Crewe, and Birmingham, to Penzance, was long and tiring but well worth the experience. The ferry, from Penzance to Hugh Town, literally had its ups and down given the wave action in the channel. By the time he landed he fully understood why the ferry is nicknamed, ‘The Nauseous Queen.’ Thank goodness he had booked a room at the Star Castle Hotel which gave him time to recover. During his taxi ride to the hotel, he asked the driver if he knew of a Lillian Brodie.
“You a relative or somethin’, stranger?” queried the driver.
“I’m the somethin’ you might say, answered Patrick, “I use to work with her but lost touch and learned she was living here.”
“Yeah, I know her. Fine woman. She and her fiancé run a tea room and daffodil farm on Old Town Lane. She has been the proprietor for ten years. The tourists come to taste her coddled cream and scones. The best in all of Cornwall, or the U.K. Where are ya from?”
“I am from a suburb of Glasgow, Johnstone. I retired there after moving from California. Couldn’t stand the rat race.”
“Well, here we are – Star Castle Hotel. If you need a ride you contact me buddy, Richard, the concierge. Tell ‘im you want Buzzy. He’ll git me.”
Patrick chuckled, “Forgive me, but did you say Buzzy?”
“Yeah, I buzz around the Island like a bee. Clever – eh?”
Patrick was glad that he had the afternoon to lay down. The seasickness was still affecting his balance and stomach. His room overlooked the southern tip of St. Mary’s, with St. Anges and Gugh Islands in the distance. The faint sounds of waves reignited Patrick’s queasy stomach, so he closed the window to lay down for a couple of hours.
The ringing phone woke him. He had slept longer than expected. He had been sleeping for six hours. The front desk was calling to say he had a visitor waiting in the lobby.
Lily must know I am here, Patrick thought to himself.
He splashed some water on his face and hurried to the lobby. Surveying the area, he saw no one who resembled Lily. He asked the clerk, “You rang to tell me I had a visitor?”
“Yes, sir, it is that gentleman standing over there.”
It was a policeman. Patrick had nothing to fear so approaching he said to the man, “I am Patrick Marshall, you wanted to speak to me.”
“You are the same Patrick Marshall from Johnstone, Scotland?”
“Yes, I am. What is this all about, Constable?” asked Patrick.
“We received word from your solicitor that you were here. Your wife has escaped from prison. Have you had any contact with her?”
Patrick was shocked. “N..N..No ... I haven’t had any contact with her in ten years.”
“What brings you to Hugh Town?”
“I am here to see if the woman who runs the Old Town Road tea-room is my adopted daughter.”
The eyebrows on the constable raised, “You mean Lily Brodie is your adopted daughter?”
“I don’t know, for sure; I am here to find out. She doesn’t know I am here as I arrived this afternoon.
The ferry over wasn’t too pleasant.”
“Ahh, yes the Nauseous Queen as we affectionately call her,” said the Constable. “When are you seeing Lily?
“I will try to see her tomorrow around 10am.”
“Expect a detective to pop in around 10:30 am to talk to the both of you.”
“Couldn’t this wait until the afternoon. Lily may not want to see me.”
“I can’t guarantee that your request will be honored, but I will pass it along in my report. Then I bid you good night,” said the constable.
Patrick spent the night, pacing, worried about his ex-wife, and muttering, “Why did she escape? Is she trying to find me?” He had all kinds of questions running through his mind. He attempted to focus on his main reason for being in Hugh Town – Lily. He tried writing down what he would like to say to Lily, only to realize he had written nothing and was staring out the window. The sun was beginning its glow on the eastern horizon. The air coming into his room was warm, and fresh. It would be a perfect day for a walk. He would wait until 7:00 am, have breakfast, then leave for the tea-room.
Obtaining a map of the town from the concierge he began his walk along the narrow streets. The houses were neat and trim with beautiful gardens. The walk wasn’t easy, with hills, twists and turns, to maneuver. Arriving at the tea-room he had a moment of doubt. He walked past the Old Town Inn several times before going in.
The Inn had several patrons in for morning tea. No one seemed concerned or aware of his entrance. A man dressed in black pants, white shirt, and black tie, with a server’s apron asked, “How many will be joining you today, sir?”
“A table for one, thank you,” said Patrick.
Patrick was seated next to the window. He was looking out the window trying to hide his nervous apprehension that he would soon meet Lily. His concentration was broken by a woman’s voice.
“May I pour you some tea, Luv, and a tasty strawberry scone with coddled cream?”
Patrick turned his head to look straight into the shocked expression of Lily who dropped her tray creating a tremendous clatter. The noise drew the attention of other patrons.
Lily exclaimed, “Patrick, what are you doing here?”
The male server who came to help clean up asked, “What’s the problem Lil? Is this man bothering you? Shall I call the police?”
“No ... no police. He surprised me that’s all. This is my step-father, Patrick Marshall,” answered Lily.
The man said, “I didn’t know you had a stepdad, Lily. I’m Ian-- Lil’s fiancé. We are going to be married in six months.”
Lily and Ian closed the tea-room allowing patrons to finish. This situation needed some sorting out. In the course of the late morning, into the afternoon, Lily and Patrick talked out the dysfunctional nature that had arisen.
Tearfully, Lily asked, “Will you forgive me? Will you be my father again?
Ian interjected, “and my father-in-law?”
Patrick smiled. “Yes, I want us to be a family again.”
Amid their tears and hugs, the restaurant door opened. Lily started to say, Sorry, we’re closed but the only word to come out was, “MOTHER!”
THE END
creating pandemic peril in a whimsical world
THE DEMARCATION ZONE
Editor Barbara J. Becker
LINGUISTIC FINGERPRINTS EDITION: 2021
Compilation copyright ©2021: Barbara J. Becker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Photo: courtesy Pat Stefanchuk. Photographer Kevin Dennis
Pat Stefanchuk wrote:
"The ruins are a part of my family history. The deMerle ruins were a fortress for the deMerle family in the Middle Ages. It is located in southern France. They were French Huguenots who were basically run out of France around 1500 & fled to England where they took up residence around Shakespeare’s residence, along the Avon River. Less than 50 years later a branch of the family emigrated to New York. Of course when they got to England they changed their name to Merrell so they wouldn’t be taken for French Catholics. After Robert Merrell got to the USA his extended family moved around. Some went to New Jersey, others to the New England area. That branch became United Empire Loyalists during the American Revolution & fled to Nova Scotia & finally to southern Ontario where they had fruit orchards. My dad’s grandfather brought his family of 20 to Manitoba (Wawanesa) in the late 1800’s."
Oprah Winfrey 2002. O Magazine.
"Worry is a misuse of imagination"
CONTRIBUTORS
BARBARA J. BECKER writes and edits stories. She lives in Winnipeg. Recent works are the Measured Words trilogy, and assorted articles to the Manitoba Genealogical Society magazine, Generations, editor David Farmer. Barbara wrote the same introduction to all of the Covid Caper stories and then let them happen.
BARBARA LINKLATER is a talented author and artist. Barbara works in elementary, as well as high school, teaching Art, and her works grace the walls of many homes. She lives in Winnipeg with her awesome feline friend, Fiona.
BARBARA E. WEBB is a creative writer who lives in Winnipeg. She is a master at giving her stories a unique twist. She is a valued member of the Seniors’ Writing Group.
RON VERT a retired clergy member, originally from the United States of America, has turned to writing fiction, and is currently working on a fantasy
The steps did not go straight up. There was a curve, ever so slight, to the right. You had to place your foot squarely in the center. The edges collected moss and did not offer a solid footing. The air was damp and heavy to breath. The light from a single torch ricocheted off the stone wall, swirling and dancing in the surrounding gloom. A splayed hand tapped the stair wall for purchase keeping time to the roll of numbers off the tongue. …twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty… thirty-one…thirty-two…. The landing was small and rectangular – flat grey slate, barely large enough for a small person. Rock walls formed two sides with a solid heavy wood door directly ahead. An ornate serpent handle controlled a slotted closure. With a heavy pull the door swung open. A further five steps and it was done. The door slammed shut.
“Chester, are we okay now?”
Relieved to hear her speak, he gently lowered her from his back and turning said, “Hwa Young, I am going to put you on my shoulders. I want you to tell me what you see above the timber that crosses the top of the door. If there is rope, I want you to pull it over the timber.”
He gently lifted the child to his shoulders, carefully reaching up to hold her back with one arm and her legs with the other.
“I see the rope, Chester. I can pull it over the timber .”
Putting the child down, he moved her away from the thick Oak door and swinging his sword he sliced the rope. The huge timber fell into its iron cradle and the passage was blocked. Ancient and rusted serpentine claws held the timber in place. They were strong but he knew they could not withstand the blast that was surely coming. They were safe, for now, and he could rest.
It was a small space, and a dim light was coming from the tunnel before them. It must lead upwards. Good. The demarcation line must be above them, but what surprises that tunnel might hold was, well, scary.
He turned to the child, and she looked straight back at him with a trust that strengthened his resolve. He did not know if they would get out, but he would not give up. They were so close now.
He tucked his pack under and around her, trying to protect her from the cold and damp stone floor.
Sky blue eyes shone out above the ruined cheek as she reached out with her good arm splaying her tiny fingers against the wall, just as she had seen him do so many, many times.
“The counting has not stopped, Chester. I can feel it. It is beating in the wall”.
“Hwa Young, you are a clever, beautiful, little flower”.
“No, Chester, do not call me that. I am not beautiful, little flower. Hwa Young? She is gone. She is gone with her family. I am Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ...ugly weed. That is who I am now.”
Her unlikely outburst made him smile. Incredible blue eyes, the thick coal-black hair and pure sweetness made him think he was protecting Snow White, an Asian Snow White. This thought made him smile again. Her whole left side, damaged by the fires could never be repaired, he knew it. He also knew, it didn’t matter. She would always lean towards the full half of the glass.
“Well, Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ugly weed, the Meadow Lark may be scorched by fire, but her song is still beautiful. Right? The fire could not steal her beauty.
You little Beautiful Flower, Hwa Young, you must never deny the name your parents gave you. Nothing will ever be able to steal your beauty.”
As he reached out to touch her wrinkled cheek, an explosion sounded somewhere behind him.
Then the director shouted, “Cut! What in the hell was that?” He whirled and glared at the crew.
“Sorry, sorry,” one of the grips apologized. “A light blew. I can fix it in a couple of minutes.”
“Well, hurry up. We’re already running late. Take 10 everyone.”
The actors stepped off the set. Patrick Marshall, whose part of Chester came after other successful roles in period action movies, offered his hand to his 8 year old co-star who was on her first movie shoot.
“Come, sit,” he encouraged her. “Rest while you can.”
Lily sat, then pulled off the wig that concealed her natural blond hair.
“This thing’s itchy,” she complained.
“But it’s part of your everlasting beauty,” Patrick teased, “along with all that inner stuff. You need to put it back on.”
“It’s hot too.” The girl scratched her hair, causing it to stand out in all directions. Meeting Patrick’s amused glance, she plunked it back on her head, wiggling it around, trying to make it more comfortable.
The hairdresser miraculously appeared, smoothed Lily’s hair, fussed with the wig for a couple of minutes, then declared the tiny star was again ready for action. Lily wasn’t ready—she started rubbing her eyes and declared, “I hate these contacts. They make my eyes hurt.”
“They can be nasty when you’re not used to them,” Patrick sympathized, “but sky blue eyes and coal black hair; that’s what makes you Snow White, beautiful little flower and not ugly weed.”
“We’re ready,” the director announced. “Places.” Lily and Patrick moved back into the cramped space, huddling together. The director stepped in. “Now remember, you can see the way out, but you don’t know what’s between here and there. Chester, you’re determined to protect Hwa Young. And Young, you trust him to do that, so do whatever he tells you. Move your hand along the wall, feeling for the counting. It hasn’t stopped.”
He turned away and shouted, Lights—ready, good. Let’s go. Quiet. And Action!”
Chester and Hwa Young continued huddling in the cramped space. They needed some rest before continuing deeper into the tunnel toward the exit leading into the Kingdom of Baekje, a vassal of Pyongyang, in the Goguryeo Kingdom. They had no idea if they could walk toward the exit freely or if traps lay before them.
“Let’s rest for a moment, first, I am going to make a torch. Stay here,” commanded Chester.
Hwa Young could hear him stumble about in the darkness. She heard him curse.
“What’s wrong, Chester?”
“Nothing just hit my knee on something. I’m coming back.”
Chester returned and began making the torch. When completed he used his flint to get the torch burning. The light revealed the chaotic obstacles of fallen pillars and stones. Chester huddled next to the girl, not really asking her, but more to himself, said, “What is this place?”
“I think I know, Chester. My father talked about this place many times as our ancestors were held captive here,” she explained. “The tunnel was a trading entrance dug in the stone mountains between the Kingdom of Baekje, and the City-State Gaya. If there was trouble the gates and barriers would be shut until the trouble abated. Most of the conflict originated with the warlords of Gaya. Whoever controlled the entrance controlled the tax revenue. The line of demarcation separated the tax collectors of the respective kingdoms.
The tunnel was dug through solid stone of the stone hills under the Warlord Kon-won. He used his captured enemies, political opponents, and even family members, as slaves to construct the tunnel. He was a cruel and considered insane.
Chester laid against the tunnel wall listening to Hwa Young’s story. The flickering torch light revealed the years of neglect to a once ornately decorated place of commerce between the kingdoms. The decorative pillars supporting the tunnel ceiling had fallen becoming the obstacles to overcome. The pillars hindered a quick retreat from their pursuers, but gave protection from them, as well. All was quiet outside. Hwa Young’s soft voice was the only sound except for dripping water echoing in the cave.
The shouts of men at the Great Door startled Chester awake. He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping nor if it was morning or night. Hiding in a dark tunnel a person loses all sense of time. Chopping sounds could be heard among the orders being shouted by various commanders outside the Great Doors. Suddenly all was quiet until he heard, “Set the explosives and blow up those doors.”
“Hwa Young, wake up we’ve got to move quickly,” Chester gently nudged her. He could only see the outline of her face as the torch was beginning to fade.
“Did I hear men’s voices, Chester? What are they doing outside?”
“King Guenchogo’s men are going to blow up the Great Doors. We have to move further into the tunnel. We must hurry. Whether we have crossed the demarcation line, or not, they are going to pursue us. Can you find the count?”
“I feel it in the wall. The moss is not as thick here, so the beat is stronger. We will be safe as long as we stay next to the wall. Keep your hands splayed as you follow the beat and its count. If we deviate too far or stray with the wrong count, we shall be lost or destroyed.”
Hwa Young splayed her tiny hand on the tunnel wall finding beat thirty-eight. There were other beats designed to confuse those not versed in the legend of the Tao. Chester lifted her on to his back. Walking for Hwa Young was not impossible, but in a dark tunnel there are too many obstacles through the years of decay. Walking would be too strenuous given her injury from a few years ago. This was not the time to be slow with an explosion imminent.
The beat within the tunnel had been infused by a Taoist priest who had been enslaved by Kon-won. The legend says,
“Walk in darkness to the light of freedom.
Count your blessing two-hundred and forty-nine times
only those bereft of hope shall find hope.
Your way is numbered, let not walls be a barrier.
They shall help and guide you if you become one with the earth.”
Hwa Young whispered those words into Chester’s ear as they made their way along the now damp and slimy walls of the tunnel. Darkness surrounded them. The wall was all they could follow. Chester bore the burden of the journey; Hwa Young knew the beat. She knew the hope. She was one with the earth.
Suddenly the great doors exploded allowing a dust diffused sunlight to flood the entry way.
King Guenchogo, himself, led the attack. He looked formidable wearing a helmet that covered his face, a large breastplate, and his thick battle robes. His stature made the men surrounding him seem small in comparison. He entered the tunnel allowing his eyes to adjust. He caught sight of some movement.
The King called out, “Chester-seonsaeng, return my property and I will spare your life.”
Chester didn’t answer. The King ordered his archers to fire.
Chester had been climbing over a fallen column when an arrow struck him in the back of his thigh. The painful shock caused him to lose his grip falling to the pillar’s other side. Hwa Young fell to the tunnel floor uninjured. Chester didn’t cry out, but Hwa Young heard him softly groan with pain. She knew he was bleeding as she could feel the sticky warmth on her hands.
The King shouted his order, “Go after them. He is wounded.”
The men began their pursuit. Chester begged Hwa Young, “Run, save yourself.”
“No, Chester, believe the Tao legend; there is hope here in the darkness.”
The King’s soldiers were advancing with swords drawn. One soldier called out, “Majesty, I think I hear them.”
The King called out, “Don’t hurt my property, but Chester-seonsaeng’s life matters not to me.”
“Flee, Hwa Young. The soldiers are almost here,” ordered Chester as he grimaced each word in pain.
“No, Chester, believe the legend; it is our only hope.”
It was the first time he ever heard defiance in Hwa Young’s voice.
As the soldiers advanced towards the couple from the center path to where they lay; the tunnel floor opened up. The death cries of crushed or impaled men echoed in the tunnel.
The King and remaining soldiers were confounded daring not to venture further. The King ordered a soldier to fire a flaming arrow so he could see what happened. The arrow abruptly diverted from the original target, finding a soldier who survived the floor’s collapse in the subterranean pit.
The King became infuriated at the soldier.
“Commander Jeong kill this fool.”
The pleas of innocence from the soldier were no more.
“Chester-seonsaeng, you will not live to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” roared the King.
The confusion gave time for Chester to remove the arrow and bandage his wound. Once the bandage was in place, Chester whispered to Hwa Young, “Come, get on my back. We must keep moving. What appears to be a short distance can be a long journey. Who knows what we face up ahead?”
“The beat is stronger, Chester; believe in the Tao. It has saved us already,” reminded Hwa Young.
A voice called out, “Cut—that’s all for today people.”
Sitting in the big soft chair, she wondered at all that was around her. Big things were bigger and soft things were softer. Everything was shiny and clean. Even the floors were shiny and clean. She wondered if the even most-high police force in her country would be able to find even one tiny little piece of dirt on this floor. Looking around, she thought, perhaps, perhaps in that corner, if, you took a thin blade of a knife, if, you passed it into the crevasse under that floor board, then, maybe, you might be able to find one piece of stupid dirt. Too stupid to not leave this place of clean.
She looked at the immense desk, black mahogany, its clean smooth lines gleaming in shafts of light coming from a wall of windows. The potted palms at either side bemused her. Why? Why put trees in an office? ‘Office she thought of the word. Her home, and the home of her halmeoni, and the home of Ji Ho, would all fit into this office. This whole new world she found herself in was so confusing for her. She understood so little of it, and the hole in her chest where her family belonged ached. Tears welled up and she shrank further into the immense soft chair, wanting to be swallowed up, wanting to disappear.
“Hwa Young, we did it! You did it! Look at this kiddo! ”
You are going to be the youngest EVER to win an Academy Award. This is magic, kid, just plain magic”.
Walking into the office he couldn’t immediately see her as he crossed cherry wood floors approaching the great bruised – leather arm chairs, facing the desk, facing away from him, and holding the bruised child.
Sliding into Steven’s seat, and finally looking up, shock gripped him. “ Hwa Young?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Brad. I need to go home.” And he watched as the tears poured from those amazing blue eyes.
He crouched down before her and reaching, took those tiny hands in his.
“Hwa Young, how many times do I have to say it, ... Brad, just Brad? Hwa Young, you know that your home is ... is ... well, its, ... its, not there anymore Hwa Young. You know that, right?”
He wanted to give her a hug but something in those eyes stopped him. A sense, a feeling, something like trespassing came over him. A feeling of taking over where others belonged. All she had lost was about to overcome him when, reality focused his thoughts and, he took her into his arms.
“Hwa Young, come here. Your family, and Chester, they are not gone, they are right here”. He patted her heart, “...and here”, he added as he patted his own heart. “They will always be with you. What you do with your life will honour them. They will live in the choices you make”.
But Mr., eh, Brad, I am full of shame. That story we told it is not true. They would be full of shame for me.
We were not in the demilitarization zone, you know that. We were in the tunnels below.
Ch ... ”. Her voice choked on the name. “ Chester saved my life in the tunnels below. He said we were crossing the demarcation line and we would be safe and he saved my life. You know this, Brad. He saved my life.”
Brad shook his head, stood and wondered how he could explain ‘Hollywood’.
“Hwa Young. It’s Background. It’s only the background we changed. You have nothing to be ashamed of. This story we told is the true story of your family. It is true. We will bring your family’s story to the world.
The thing is, the world wants adventure when they go to the movies. We needed to make the background more ... well dramatic.
Crossing two and a half miles of territory, with wild tigers and black bears and armed stations posted on both perimeters is a lot more exciting that crawling two and a half miles through a tunnel.
We told the story with truth Hwa Young. We just changed the background … a bit ... at the very ... at the end of the story ...”. The reproach in her eyes made him stutter as he realized what he was saying. She stopped him with the bald truth.
“Background, Brad? Chester is dead in the tunnel. He is dead and I am alive. Is that not enough? Is that not enough for the watchers of this story of my family?”
With that Steven fairly danced through the door.
“It’s grand, it might be the absolute best thing we’ve ever put together. WOW! ... ”, and catching the scene before him, he froze in his absolute delight.
“What’s going on?”
Brad straightened up, and facing his friend said, “Steven, we have to talk; you gotta change the ending.”
“Wha... wha, Brad, what are you saying?”
Hwa Young answered for him. “It is the background, Mr. Steven. The background is lying.”
“I’m confused.” Steven tugged the ball cap from his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you mean the background is lying? The background is the background. It’s the story that’s important and the background has to support that.”
“But it isn’t the truth,” the girl insisted.
“I’m still confused,” Steven continued. There is no truth here; truth can be what I want it to be in the interest of telling an exciting story.”
A tear trickled down Lily’s cheek.
Steven went on. “You’re an actor, a damn good one for an 8 year old. But still an actor. It seems I’m not the only one who’s confused. Look ... here comes your mother. Maybe she can help sort things out.”
He patted her cheek, then turned away. “ I need you to be at the top of your game tomorrow. It’s the last day of shooting.”
Patrick Marshall arrived at the sound stage for an early morning make-up and wardrobe call. The makeup, alone, would require three hours before he could be in costume and on set. Walking through the doors a voice called out, “Hey Patrick, what are you doing here? Didn’t you get the notice from the Big Wigs?”
“What notice? I wasn’t informed of anything. Where are you anyway?”
Jason laughed. “Sorry, look up.”
The grip was working on the lighting when Patrick arrived. He was trying to make sure another light didn’t blow as one had a couple of days ago. “Hold on Patrick, I’m coming down.”
Jason is quite agile moving through the lighting tracks and going up and down the ladders. It was like watching Tarzan fly through the jungle. In an instant, Jason is standing before Patrick.
“You know, Jason, you amaze me how you can move so quickly.”
“It comes with practice. So, you didn’t get the message about the delay?”
“No! What’s going on?”
“I don’t know for sure, but the “Big Wigs” are meeting with Lily, and her mother, to discuss a possible script change.”
“Sheesh, I hope not. We are down to the final scenes. Today is supposed to be our last day of shooting. Why now after all these months.”
“Who knows for sure, but it’s all about money and what a movie will make at the box office.”
“Yeah, I know. One day you’re a star, adored, and the next day a nobody, if the movie bombs.”
“True, but you and Lily are great actors – Oscar nominees. You’ll get other auditions.”
“Do you think the movie will be scraped?”
“I hope not, for all our sakes. We have an exciting movie that will intrigue movie goers.”
“Who are the Big Wigs?”
“All I know is our Producer and Director were called to a 10am meeting.”
“That means four hours till they meet.”
“Why don’t you go to the Commissary. Have some breakfast. If I hear anything, I will have you paged.”
“I guess that’s all I can do. You get back to work. See ya later.
“Amico mio, Ciao.”
Patrick, exiting the sound stage, noticed the movie lot was bustling as other productions were preparing to begin. He had to dodge and swerve stagehands moving racks of costumes and props to the various sound stages on the lot. The sight always amazed Patrick, as to the number of people it took to produce a movie, let alone one scene.
The Commissary was busier than he thought it would be. A line for the buffet was about a 15-minute wait which was not a problem since he had nowhere else to go. He chose his breakfast items, found a table,, and began studying his lines while eating.
Patrick realized by 11:30 am that production probably wouldn’t take place today. He wondered what inspired the Big Wigs to consider a possible script change. The sound stage would be his next stop. If there is no activity, or the Director isn’t there, he is going home. Just as he was preparing to leave, he saw Lily and her mother. He hurried over to her.
“Good Morning, Lily, and this is your mother, I presume?”
“Yes, this is my Mom. Mommy this is Patrick Marshall, the star of our movie”
Patrick blushed, “You are a star too, but nice to meet you, Lily’s mom. Do you know what’s going on with the production?”
Lily’s mother said, “Yes, can we get some brunch and join you?”
“Yes, by all means. I am over by the window. I’ll get an extra chair while you are going through the buffet line.”
It wasn’t long before Lily and her mother joined Patrick. He smiled as he saw what Lily had on her plate. A sausage patty, cottage cheese with fruit cocktail on top, and a piece of toast.
“Think you can eat all that, Lily?” teased Patrick.
“Oh, yeah,” she smiled, “This is my favorite combination.”
“Now, tell me, what’s going on?” asked Patrick.
Lily’s mom answered, “The real Hwa Young was in the Producers office. She had been privileged to see the outtakes of the screenplay that was developed out of her real-life story. The woman was having a hard time understanding the concept of a story where history repeats itself in previous generations.”
“I didn’t realize the movie’s direction until the tunnel scenes. So, I can understand her confusion.” said Patrick.
“Hwa Young was fearful that her family, and her teacher rescuer, Chester, would be dishonored because it was all a lie in her eyes. I think they got through to her.” explained Lily’s mother.
“So why were you involved in the meeting?” asked Patrick?
“Oh, those guys! That Brad, and Steven person, had Hwa Young and my daughter’s identity all confused. They kept calling my daughter Hwa Young because they are so excited that she was nominated for an Oscar, and Hwa Young was receiving a Pulitzer. Since my daughter is a minor, I was there to negotiate a possible script change, and sign publicity release forms. I think I straightened them out. Have you ever met Hwa Young?”
“No, I have not had the pleasure.” said Patrick.
“I hope you do. You would almost think she was a child, if you were to see her.”
Patrick and Lily’s mother’s lively conversation was interrupted, “Cast and crew for “The Demarcation Zone,” report to sound stage. I repeat ...”
Patrick hated moving. So many people hiding all his “stuff” from him. Putting his “stuff” everywhere he didn’t want it put, and changing all his good old “stuff” with new, nice and shiny, “stuff.” They think he doesn’t notice, but oh, he notices … AND..., dammit, where is his hammer?
He stormed across his new ‘sunken’ floored office, tripped over the Italian Marbled steps descending to the front of the fireplace, and took a dive onto a thickly carpeted floor. “Dammit, Dammit ... Dammit … Dammit! Since when do floors sink?” His shouting brought 2 packers and Molly hurrying into the room.
“Sir”? Molly asked, trying to suppress her smile. He looked so comical, her elegant boss, standing there in his socks, with his shirt hanging out, his snowy hair (what was left of it) electrified in all directions. He brought Albert Einstein to her mind.
The Packers froze at his dangerous glare. Molly scurried down the cool marbled steps encircling the old man, as he glared at the two packers.
“So, are you two getting paid to stare at old fallen movie stars, or to hide his belongings all over this monstrosity we will so lovingly come to call home”?
Molly’s bright smiles and quick reaction started to settle his ruffled feathers. Nodding at the two startled men, she told them to just continue with their work. Everything was fine.
“Where’s Mary?”
“Where’s my hammer, dammit?”
“This Poster is getting put up over that fireplace. That is an end to it. Dammit! It’s my office, my fireplace, and dammit, it’s my poster. Mary can do whatever she wants with the rest of the house, but this is going over my fireplace.
As she walked away, a grinning Molly added the “Dammit!”
“Mrs. Marshall is on her way. Her flight lands this afternoon at 4:00, and Simon will be leaving to pick her up shortly. Your new home is gorgeous, Mr. Marshall, and you will soon come to love Scotland. Now, I will get you your hammer and you can hang that poster anywhere your stubborn heart desires.”
She made him smile, that little Molly. So much like Lilly in so many ways. Sometimes, just a quick turn of her head would tug at his heart with memories of Lilly. He thanked God for the attachment that Mary had formed with her.
Staring down at the once beautifully mounted poster with the small black and white photo centered in the bottom matt, he relaxed into his favorite easy chair in front of the fire.
THE DEMARCATION ZONE
Mary, Lilly, and Hwa Young, arms around each other, looked up at him through the grainy glass. It was the morning he met Mary. It was literally the first day of the rest of his life. He rubbed his thumb along the splintered frame and let the memories come pouring back.
For the most part they were good memories. His successful career had spanned more than three decades but like most actors he had experienced ups and downs, successes and failures. “The Demarcation” fell somewhere between the two extremes. Patrick remembered the challenging shoot and the eleventh hour script changes that left the actors scrambling to learn new lines.
And he certainly remembered Lily. She’d been only eight when the movie was made: a charming child with an abundance of natural talent. Her star had blazed white hot until she aged out of the child parts that had become her trademark. Her fans demanded nothing else and after starring roles in a couple of teen rom coms that Rotten Tomatoes had panned, Lily screamed her way through some low budget slasher flicks and then faded from the public eye.
Patrick stared at the poster, lost in thought. Could its damaged state somehow reflect what had happened to his young friend? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been in touch with Lily and had no idea where she was or what her current life was like. He resolved to find out.
Two years have passed since Patrick resolved to find Lily. He contacted his solicitor in Glasgow to help him. The solicitor in turn hired the same detective who arrested Lily’s mother ten years ago. It was soon after this surprising event that Lily disappeared. Patrick assumed she was heart-broken surrounding the circumstances.
Patrick was returning from his daily walk about in Johnstone. The post arrived delivering some packages. As Patrick drew near the Postman called to him, “Patrick, I have a certified letter for you. You have to sign for it.”
Patrick was puzzled at first until he saw the return address, “Thank you, Rory, I haven’t heard from my solicitor in two years. I wonder what he has to say?”
“You’ll never know until you open it. First you need to sign for it.”
“Oh ... right ... thanks.”
Patrick signed the registry and bid Rory a good day. He entered his office standing before the fireplace where the poster still hung. Precious moments always flooded his mind as he stared at the movie poster, “The Demarcation Zone.” His hands trembled as he broke the seal of the envelope. At first, he couldn’t quite comprehend the letter’s content. It was just a momentary shock. The solicitor has discovered Lily’s whereabouts. He would like to see Patrick in his Glasgow office within the next two weeks.
Patrick immediately rang up his solicitor, set the date, and began making travel arrangements by train. The Glasgow trip would take an hour; he would stay overnight and leave to find Lily the following day.
The Solicitor revealed that Lily was living in Hugh Town on St. Mary’s Island in the Isles of Scilly under the name of Lillian Brodie. She has a bungalow at 145 Church Road, approximately 5 kilometers from the ferry landing. The private investigator hadn’t revealed much other than to say she has a daily routine of leaving her home at 6:00 am and returning at approximately 7:00 pm. He attempted no contact with her. Patrick was pleased with this bit of news. The solicitor also revealed that he had inherited five-thousand pound, sterling, from an uncle of Mary’s. The documents had to be signed before the bank notes could be transferred.
Patrick said to his solicitor, “This is my lucky day.”
The trip on the Cross-Country Train, from Edinburgh, via Crewe, and Birmingham, to Penzance, was long and tiring but well worth the experience. The ferry, from Penzance to Hugh Town, literally had its ups and down given the wave action in the channel. By the time he landed he fully understood why the ferry is nicknamed, ‘The Nauseous Queen.’ Thank goodness he had booked a room at the Star Castle Hotel which gave him time to recover. During his taxi ride to the hotel, he asked the driver if he knew of a Lillian Brodie.
“You a relative or somethin’, stranger?” queried the driver.
“I’m the somethin’ you might say, answered Patrick, “I use to work with her but lost touch and learned she was living here.”
“Yeah, I know her. Fine woman. She and her fiancé run a tea room and daffodil farm on Old Town Lane. She has been the proprietor for ten years. The tourists come to taste her coddled cream and scones. The best in all of Cornwall, or the U.K. Where are ya from?”
“I am from a suburb of Glasgow, Johnstone. I retired there after moving from California. Couldn’t stand the rat race.”
“Well, here we are – Star Castle Hotel. If you need a ride you contact me buddy, Richard, the concierge. Tell ‘im you want Buzzy. He’ll git me.”
Patrick chuckled, “Forgive me, but did you say Buzzy?”
“Yeah, I buzz around the Island like a bee. Clever – eh?”
Patrick was glad that he had the afternoon to lay down. The seasickness was still affecting his balance and stomach. His room overlooked the southern tip of St. Mary’s, with St. Anges and Gugh Islands in the distance. The faint sounds of waves reignited Patrick’s queasy stomach, so he closed the window to lay down for a couple of hours.
The ringing phone woke him. He had slept longer than expected. He had been sleeping for six hours. The front desk was calling to say he had a visitor waiting in the lobby.
Lily must know I am here, Patrick thought to himself.
He splashed some water on his face and hurried to the lobby. Surveying the area, he saw no one who resembled Lily. He asked the clerk, “You rang to tell me I had a visitor?”
“Yes, sir, it is that gentleman standing over there.”
It was a policeman. Patrick had nothing to fear so approaching he said to the man, “I am Patrick Marshall, you wanted to speak to me.”
“You are the same Patrick Marshall from Johnstone, Scotland?”
“Yes, I am. What is this all about, Constable?” asked Patrick.
“We received word from your solicitor that you were here. Your wife has escaped from prison. Have you had any contact with her?”
Patrick was shocked. “N..N..No ... I haven’t had any contact with her in ten years.”
“What brings you to Hugh Town?”
“I am here to see if the woman who runs the Old Town Road tea-room is my adopted daughter.”
The eyebrows on the constable raised, “You mean Lily Brodie is your adopted daughter?”
“I don’t know, for sure; I am here to find out. She doesn’t know I am here as I arrived this afternoon.
The ferry over wasn’t too pleasant.”
“Ahh, yes the Nauseous Queen as we affectionately call her,” said the Constable. “When are you seeing Lily?
“I will try to see her tomorrow around 10am.”
“Expect a detective to pop in around 10:30 am to talk to the both of you.”
“Couldn’t this wait until the afternoon. Lily may not want to see me.”
“I can’t guarantee that your request will be honored, but I will pass it along in my report. Then I bid you good night,” said the constable.
Patrick spent the night, pacing, worried about his ex-wife, and muttering, “Why did she escape? Is she trying to find me?” He had all kinds of questions running through his mind. He attempted to focus on his main reason for being in Hugh Town – Lily. He tried writing down what he would like to say to Lily, only to realize he had written nothing and was staring out the window. The sun was beginning its glow on the eastern horizon. The air coming into his room was warm, and fresh. It would be a perfect day for a walk. He would wait until 7:00 am, have breakfast, then leave for the tea-room.
Obtaining a map of the town from the concierge he began his walk along the narrow streets. The houses were neat and trim with beautiful gardens. The walk wasn’t easy, with hills, twists and turns, to maneuver. Arriving at the tea-room he had a moment of doubt. He walked past the Old Town Inn several times before going in.
The Inn had several patrons in for morning tea. No one seemed concerned or aware of his entrance. A man dressed in black pants, white shirt, and black tie, with a server’s apron asked, “How many will be joining you today, sir?”
“A table for one, thank you,” said Patrick.
Patrick was seated next to the window. He was looking out the window trying to hide his nervous apprehension that he would soon meet Lily. His concentration was broken by a woman’s voice.
“May I pour you some tea, Luv, and a tasty strawberry scone with coddled cream?”
Patrick turned his head to look straight into the shocked expression of Lily who dropped her tray creating a tremendous clatter. The noise drew the attention of other patrons.
Lily exclaimed, “Patrick, what are you doing here?”
The male server who came to help clean up asked, “What’s the problem Lil? Is this man bothering you? Shall I call the police?”
“No ... no police. He surprised me that’s all. This is my step-father, Patrick Marshall,” answered Lily.
The man said, “I didn’t know you had a stepdad, Lily. I’m Ian-- Lil’s fiancé. We are going to be married in six months.”
Lily and Ian closed the tea-room allowing patrons to finish. This situation needed some sorting out. In the course of the late morning, into the afternoon, Lily and Patrick talked out the dysfunctional nature that had arisen.
Tearfully, Lily asked, “Will you forgive me? Will you be my father again?
Ian interjected, “and my father-in-law?”
Patrick smiled. “Yes, I want us to be a family again.”
Amid their tears and hugs, the restaurant door opened. Lily started to say, Sorry, we’re closed but the only word to come out was, “MOTHER!”
THE END
