The Beverwyck Review

Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Category: Alternate history

The Secrets of the Camel Carvings

October 18, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

Inspired by true events.

The Nafud Desert in Saudi Arabia is a vast and formidable place. Under a blazing sun, golden sands stretch as far as the eye can see. It’s also one of the driest places on Earth—rainfall is sporadic and minimal.

My team and I have come to this locale with a singular purpose: to uncover the secrets within ancient carvings of camels found on an outcropping of rock. A sense of awe washes over us as we stand before the carvings. These are not crude etchings of a bygone era; they are intricate masterpieces with sharp details as if chiseled yesterday. We can even discern the camels’ gender—they’re all male. But it’s not the craftsmanship that astounds us the most, it’s the subject matter. “These are not camels of the past,” I observe while tracing the lines of a camel’s mechanical leg, a metallic appendage integrated into the creature’s body. “These are camels of the future.”

The big question is: what is the carvings’ purpose? Could there be a hidden message or prophecy encoded within the artwork? This question leads to wild speculation. I muse that an advanced, futuristic society might have created the carvings. “Perhaps they’re trying to communicate something.”

                                                               *

The world had tuned in with fascination when the discovery hit the airwaves. Scientists, historians, and conspiracy theorists each had their own interpretation of the carvings. Theories ran the gamut from the benign to the apocalyptic. Amid this hoopla, a group of unlikely allies emerged, driven by our shared desire for truth and understanding. We formed a renegade team.

Dr. Amelia Sinclair is a renowned historian known for her expertise in decoding ancient texts and symbols. She is methodical and meticulous and believes that the carvings hold a key to a lost history. Her goal: piece together the puzzle of the carvings to reveal forgotten narratives.

Dr. Samuel Bennett is an astrophysicist known for his groundbreaking theories on space-time manipulation. He’s driven by a probable connection between the carvings and the universe.  He is the anchor for our scientific endeavors.

Max Ryder is a skilled computer hacker. He can track down information in cyberspace where others can’t. He’s motivated by a sense of adventure and sees the carvings as a digital puzzle to be solved. Max is also our technological compass. His mission: steer us through the labyrinth of data we will surely generate. 

And there’s me, Dr. Lara Marlowe, an archaeologist with a passion for history and digging up artifacts. I come from a family of explorers; my childhood dream was to discover an ancient civilization.  I see it as my duty to unearth stories buried in time, to make them resonate in the present day.

                                                              *

Days become weeks in the desert. We gather around a table in the camp, covered by a tattered canvas tent. Max’s fingers dance across a holographic display of the carvings. “There’s something here, something in the arrangement of the camels . . . it’s not random art—it’s a code.” Dr. Bennett nods in agreement. “I’ve been considering a theory: what if these camels represent different timelines or alternate realities? Each would symbolize a different version of our world.” I lean in for a better look. “That would explain the mechanical parts, the futuristic elements. Maybe they’re showing a glimpse of technologies from other dimensions.” Dr. Sinclair chimes in. “When we crack the code, we’ll know.”  

We combine our expertise in history, physics, and archaeology. We search for patterns, connections, and hidden meanings within the carvings. Max’s hacking skills allow him to tap into a network of researchers around the world, to share our findings and ideas.

One sweltering afternoon, we gather around Max as he manipulates the holographic display. Our foreheads glisten with sweat as his fingers dance over the controls. His excitement is palpable, like a kid playing his favorite video game. And then, he peels away the outer layer of the carvings. We all lean in, eyes wide with curiosity. As the hidden layer of symbols reveal itself an electric charge fills the air. Dr. Sinclair touches the holographic surface. “Incredible,” she whispers. Dr. Bennett’s scientific mind races to comprehend the implications. “These symbols are unique. They  come from a civilization beyond our understanding.” I lean in. The symbols pulse with an otherworldly glow. “They’re not random patterns. There’s a structure to them, a purpose.” Meanwhile, Max works to decipher their meaning. His brow furrows with concentration. “I’ve never seen anything like this. This language is beyond human comprehension—it’s designed to baffle us.” The images mesmerize Dr. Sinclair. “These symbols are the key to the carving’s purpose. But what’s the message?”

Excitement mounts as Max continues to decode. Before long, we discover the symbols convey a message—not of hope or guidance—but a warning. Dr. Sinclair reads the message aloud: “Beware of the convergence of worlds. It brings the end of all we know. In your quest for knowledge, you have awakened forces beyond your comprehension.” Her voice quivers. Max looks to Dr. Bennett. “What the heck is the convergence of worlds?” Dr. Bennett explains, “The convergence of worlds is a perilous phenomenon. It’s when multiple parallel dimensions or alternate realities are on the brink of colliding. This convergence will be catastrophic. It threatens the stability of the known universe.” Silence descends upon the tent. Max, the once confident hacker, struggles to maintain his composure. “The message also says we must guard these carvings with our lives. They hold the key to preventing the convergence of worlds.” His voice trembles. The gravity of our discovery settles upon me. “The mystery of these carvings drew us here, but we’ve let the genie out of the bottle.”  

The campsite takes on the feel of a war room. We need to protect the carvings from falling into the wrong hands. As we discuss various plans, unease settles among us. I voice my concerns. “We can’t do this alone. We need help, allies who can help guard the site.” Meanwhile, the winds begin to howl. Swirls of sand dance through the air. The gusts intensify and the tent rattles. It appears the forces we have stirred up are manifesting around us. Then a sudden, violent tremor shakes the ground. We stumble and struggle to maintain our balance. The holographic display flickers. Dr. Sinclair’s eyes widen in horror. “We’re running out of time. The convergence of worlds is happening, and it’s accelerating!” Max continues to decipher while Dr. Bennett realizes the consequences of our actions. “The convergence is destabilizing our reality.” His voice quakes. “We need to find the fail-safe.” I glance outside the tent. The desert has become a maelstrom of shifting sands and surreal landscapes. “We have to get to the heart of this, to the source of the carvings. That’s where the answers lie.”

With collective determination, we venture into the tumultuous desert. The glow of the symbols on Max’s hologram guides us. The sand beneath our feet ripples like liquid. Each step is a struggle. Dr. Sinclair leads the way. “Stay close, everyone!” she calls over the wind. “We can’t let this convergence happen!” Max, his fingers tapping the display, follows behind her. “We’re getting closer to the fail-safe! We must keep moving!” I scan the surroundings for clues. A mirage-like figure emerges from the sands. It’s a twisted version of myself, with wild, disheveled hair and eyes that glint with madness. “Watch out! Don’t trust it! It’s not real!” We press onward and the distortions of reality grow more nightmarish. Bizarre creatures with mismatched limbs and grotesque features emerge from the sands. Their cries echo in the wasteland. Dr. Sinclair manages to stumble and almost falls into an abyss. Dr. Bennett yanks her back. “Stay focused!” he urges. Max continues to decipher, his eyes glued to the display. “We’re close. I can feel it. The fail-safe is nearby.” The cacophony of strange creatures and dissonant landscapes creates an eerie symphony as we soldier on . . . .

Then Max stops. “I’ve found it! The fail-safe! It’s inside the carvings.”

We follow Max’s lead and head to the outcropping. The symbols on the hologram become more intricate. The distortions also grow more intense; the very fabric of reality begins to tear. We see other worlds bleeding into ours. It’s a terrifying spectacle. As we approach the carvings, a sense of foreboding envelopes us. The symbols on the hologram become a swirling vortex, and the display transforms into a portal of sorts. It shimmers with an odd light, beckoning us forward. With a shared resolve, we step inside and find ourselves in a realm beyond comprehension. The laws of physics no longer apply. We float amidst a sea of shifting dimensions, surrounded by kaleidoscopic patterns that defy explanation. Max taps into the essence of the fail-safe. The symbols respond to his touch, rearranging themselves into a coherent message. He reads it aloud: “To halt the convergence you must keep the past, present, and future separate. Embrace the knowledge that transcends time.” His voice echoes through the void.

Our combined knowledge and expertise converge. Dr. Sinclair, with her historical insight, suggests we use the carvings as guardians of temporal boundaries, ensuring that the past, present, and future remain distinct. Dr. Bennett, drawing from his theories on space-time manipulation, offers his guidance. “We must align the symbols, keeping them from intermingling, like celestial bodies in the cosmos.” Max, with his technological prowess, harnesses the energy from the symbols to reinforce their boundaries between the past, present, and future.

With a renewed sense of purpose, we go to work. The carvings glow as we manipulate them, separating past, present, and future. The very essence of time bends to our will. The symbols respond. Instead of merging, they emit a brilliant yet harmonious energy while preserving their boundaries. Then without warning, the convergence begins to reverse. The distorted realities stabilize. The nightmarish creatures retreat into the earth. We find ourselves back in the Nafud Desert as the last traces of the convergence dissipate. The camel carvings have returned to their tranquil state. We stand amidst the golden sands, exhausted yet triumphant.

Our mission is complete. We have unlocked the secrets of the camel carvings and averted a catastrophe. The knowledge we’ve gained is both a blessing and a burden—it hints at the existence of an intricate cosmic tapestry beyond our comprehension.

As for our team, we carry the weight of the knowledge of the convergence of worlds. Our work now is to safeguard the balance of reality itself, as custodians of the secrets within the camel carvings.

Android Justice

March 6, 2023 / / 5 Comments

By James Gonda.

Tara killed the machine.

On any given day she was calm and fun to be around. She was never violent or profane. So, her coworkers were aghast when she demolished the android with a sledgehammer. In a few heated minutes, Tara turned the machine into shards of plastic and clumps of wires. After she watched her behavior on the surveillance feed, she felt sick. Was that really me? she thought. That person is a psycho. But the eye in the sky does not lie.   

The Authorities charged Tara with anarchy and the destruction of State property. At the detention center, she was detainee D051959 and confined to compartment 202. The walls of her cell were blue-green cinder blocks. Angst filled her insides. In the old days, before the Insurrection, one was presumed innocent until proven guilty. Now the reverse was policy: one was guilty on the spot until shown innocent. This meant the burden of proof rested at her door, which was chromium steel and locked from the outside. How could she prove her innocence?

In Tara’s defense, the android had pushed her too far for too long. More than once, it had talked down to her and made her feel inferior. It ridiculed what she liked. It ignored her. When Tara said good morning, it never returned the greeting. It even laughed at Tara; the machine’s snicker was infuriating. From Tara’s chair, enough was enough and something had to change. As it happened, her father-in-law had recently passed, and Tara inherited his tools. Among the cache was a five-pound sledgehammer that she kept in the bed of her truck.

Tara figured the chances of an acquittal were nil. The gulag on the frozen tundra in North or South Dakota loomed in her future. The Authorities were vague about its location. They only called it Dakota. She toyed with the idea of escaping with the help of her wife. But where would they go? Her arraignment was tomorrow.

                                                               ***

During her fifteen minutes of shame, the judge was very stern. He repeated the charges of anarchy and the destruction of State property. He added that anarchy was the most egregious crime against the State. He was an old, small man. Then he demanded her plea, guilty or not guilty. Tara tried to explain that she was NOT an anarchist. She was, in fact, a model citizen who seldom griped about anything. The judge ignored her argument wholesale. “Guilty or not guilty!”

They say life comes down to a few moments and this was one of them. Tara took a deep breath. “Your honor, yes, it’s true, I am guilty of lashing out at the machine’s pattern of abuse. I am guilty of standing up to the so-called superiority of artificial intelligence. I did this for myself and for all citizens, including you. I have no regrets and no remorse.”   

Murmurings filled the room. The judge banged his gavel. “Quiet down, quiet down,” he said. Then he fixed his eyes on the defendant. “I have noted your guilty plea. Sentencing is withheld until a later date.” Two men in gray uniforms appeared and transported Tara back to the detention center. For a short time, she wept in her cell.    

                                                               ***

Eleven days had passed since Tara’s guilty-but-I-can-explain plea. She languished in 202 and began to feel claustrophobic. She had no idea when she would appear for sentencing. No one from the State had visited. Her keepers knew nothing. During exercise time, another detainee approached her with a big grin. “All the way, sister, all the way!” he said. Tara tried to engage him: all the way, where? she wanted to know. A guard gripped Tara’s shoulder and pointed to a sign with his baton: NO TALKING.

                                                            ***

After more than 30 days of waiting, the State notified Tara that her sentencing was at 12 pm that day. Tara, a movie buff, thought of High Noon. She recalled the showdown at the end. It was Will Kane, the good lawman, versus Frank Miller, a vicious outlaw. Was life imitating art?  

The courtroom was packed. This surprised Tara. Who were these people? She was incredulous they came to see her. Unbeknownst to Tara, her case had attracted waves of public interest. She spotted her wife. She was sitting near the front in a blue dress. They smiled at one another. Tara knew her cheeriness was a front; her eyes betrayed complete desperation.   

Then the judge – a different judge – appeared. Instead of the old man was a shiny brass android. It looked identical to the model she had hammered to death. Without fanfare, it sat down, banged the gavel, surveyed the courtroom, and then found Tara. “Detainee D051959, please stand,” it said.  

A hush fell over the room. It continued, “The original arbitrator of this case has expired, and I have been assigned the task of sentencing. Detainee D051959, you have pleaded guilty to the charges of anarchy and destruction of State property, is that correct?” Tara answered yes. “Your guilty plea has precluded the need for a trial. On behalf of the State, thank you for your cooperation.” The android glanced at a few documents and then returned to Tara. “I have analyzed the facts of this case,” it said. “Detainee D051959, I am going to ask a very important question. Please answer with great care. For your crimes, what do you think is an appropriate sentence? You’ve had ample time to consider what your fate might be.”    

Tara glanced at her wife. She forced another smile. Oh, how she loved her.

Then she addressed the machine. “Your honor, thank you for permitting me to speak. I do not want to live out my days in Dakota. I want to go home, return to work, and be a compliant citizen. I’m sure you know I have no history of acting the way I did. I am not an enemy of the State.” Tara paused, cleared her throat, and asked for a cup of water. The android instructed the bailiff to bring her water and he did. After a few sips, she resumed. “Without a doubt, your Honor, it is only right that I pay for the destroyed android. I want to make the State whole again. I will also surrender my sledgehammer to the State. The truth is, I have no legitimate use for a such a tool. And I will enroll in anger management. The person I saw on the security tape scared me. I never want to be that woman again.”

The android remained silent. It sat there, motionless, as if in sleep mode. This went on for some time and no one knew what to think. Tara looked at her wife and shrugged. She took another drink of water. Finally, the machine twitched a few times and sprang to life. It focused on the back of the room at no one in particular. It said, “The State accepts your terms of sentencing. Please see the bailiff for payment arrangements. You are free to go.”  

To Preserve Democracy

January 21, 2023 / / 1 Comment

By Richard Burt.

On the morning of January 7, 2021, the sun rises on smoldering fires outside and inside the United States Capitol Building. On its limestone steps dead bodies are everywhere. Among the deceased some cling to life. Prominent politicians are also casualties. Senator Chuck Schumer. Senator Bernie Sanders. Senator Elizabeth Warren. Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Also confirmed dead are members of the press. Brian Williams. Chuck Todd. Hallie Jackson. Inside the building, Vice President Mike Pence sways from makeshift gallows. The Proud Boys, the perpetrators, take up the task of eliminating those barely alive. They ignore all political affiliations.

Among the carnage Donald J. Trump appears at a podium. He puffs out his chest. “I, Donald J. Trump, declare myself President of The United States for the next five years, or longer.” His lawless and well-armed followers erupt in cheers. “And I name my son, Donald Trump, Jr, Vice President.” The crowd erupts even louder. “We will write a new constitution,” he says. The mob begins to chant, “Trump! Trump! Trump!”

With a dead Vice President and a President showing mental incapabilities, the Cabinet invokes the 25th amendment. Third in line to the presidency is the Speaker of the House. At an undisclosed location, the Chief Justice swears in Speaker Nancy Pelosi as the 47th President of the United States. As the new Chief Executive her first duty is to address the domestic threat to the country. She activates the national guard, and a sharpshooter sets up in place. Before too long, the primary threat to America’s democracy is in the crosshairs. The shooter reports, “I have a clear shot. Waiting for the order.”  

A voice in his earpiece says, “Take the shot.”   

He squeezes the trigger . . . .

The Best Gift

December 21, 2022 / / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

Everyone in our village saw the bright light in the night sky, including Caspar and me. We were not surprised. In fact, we were expecting it. We had been watching the planet Jupiter move from near the sun to conjoin with the planet Venus. At the same time, Jupiter aligned with the star Regulus, one of the most radiant stars in the sky. So, this “triple conjunction” produced the most vivid of lights.

This illumination shone over the sands of Judea. Caspar, also a scholar of Hebrew culture, suspected something else was going on. He went straight to his ancient texts. He soon reported that in Hebrew, Jupiter goes by the name Sedeq, meaning righteousness. He explained the Hebrews for centuries have been waiting for their Messiah. Sedeq was a word used in anticipation of his arrival. I rolled my eyes. “We have no time for Jewish fairy tales,” I told him.

Caspar continued, undeterred. He said that Jupiter and the birth of monarchs went hand-in-hand. Regulas was the King star for its brilliance. Venus and women and motherhood have been a trio for eons. I looked at him, dumbfounded. He took pity on me and turned his analysis into a simple equation. Jupiter + Regulas + Venus = the birth of a king. In time, this person will deliver his people from themselves. The long-awaited Messiah. Caspar fell silent as I considered his proof. Finally, I said, “Is any of this necessary?”   

Caspar wondered what King Herod knew of these astro-histories. Herod was the current ruler of the Hebrews. My friend refused to take any chances. He insisted we travel to Jerusalem and bring Herod up-to-speed. And we should pay homage to the baby sovereign. “This is monumental!” he exclaimed, waving his arms. “We must follow the star to the new king.” I reminded my cohort that this king was not our king, and we were not his people. From my chair, we should record this megastar in the scroll and call it a night. Besides, we were too old and lived too far for such a long trip. “We must bring gifts,” he added. “Gifts fit for a king, a divine king.” I sighed. “I’m thinking a few sheep and goats?” Casper glared at me. Then he thought for a moment, running his fingers through his beard. “Listen,” he said. “Do you remember King Callinicus? The Syrian? When he paid homage to the god Apollo, he brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The gold for Apollo’s kingship. The frankincense to perfume his deity. The myrrh to anoint his body in death, to show his mortality. We would be wise to do the same.” I snorted and said that was a fine idea, but we were fresh out of those items. “That is true,” he said. “But Herod must have a grand supply. When we meet him, we will explain everything. Prepare the camels for a journey, Balthazar, our mission begins now!” His boisterous laugh rattled the roof. So, Caspar conscripted me, and his presumptuousness rubbed me the wrong way. This was a trip I did not want to make. Herod was a king I did not want to meet. The baby was someone I did not want to see. To his credit, Caspar always did well to get his way.

When we arrived at Herod’s temple, to my astonishment he welcomed us with open arms. He seemed intrigued by a pair of astronomer-priests from Mesopotamia. He asked many questions. Then with passion and authority, Caspar made his case. He explained about the megastar. The divine king. The need to pay homage. The precedent of gold, frankincense, and myrrh as gifts. I figured the great King Herod would laugh until he cried. Why would he entrust two strangers with such valuable things? Again, to my amazement, he gave us everything we asked for. He even replenished our supplies. He had one request in return: please report back to him when we find the infant so he may worship him.

Outside of Herod’s temple, Caspar turned to me and said, “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He insisted that we celebrate our little victory, which we did, well into the night. We swilled wine and consumed exotic foods.

The next morning, Caspar did not awaken and for good reason: my chum and colleague had passed away. The arduous journey. The unusual foods. The excessive drinking. With his advanced age it was all too much. So, I gave him the best burial I could in a foreign land and planned to head for home. But at nightfall, that star beckoned me. No, it nagged at me, until I relented and restarted the venture. This decision was not for Herod. Or the baby messiah. Or even for me. It was to finish what my dear friend had started.  

The star led me eastward to a hamlet called Bethlehem. On the outskirts of town, I encountered a few shepherds, breathless and excited. They claimed an angel had spoken to them. This messenger announced the birth of the new king, nearby, in a manger.

We found the infant resting in a feeding trough. I could not believe my eyes. Caspar, oh Caspar, you were right! The baby’s parents were there: a young maiden and her older husband. She looked tired and happy; he stood by as guardian and protector. In the muted starlight, I peered at the tiny bundle and beheld the face of a mighty God. I gasped. I dropped to my knees, afraid, confused, bewildered, unsure of what to do next. Then I remembered the gifts, I must deliver the gifts. I fetched the gold, frankincense, and myrrh and presented them. I returned to my knees and bowed my head. Were these offerings proper and enough? The father put his hand on my shoulder. “You have done well in the sight of our Lord,” he assured me.

I told Herod nothing of this new king. I knew he would kill the baby, his parents, and me. For safety, I traveled home through Egypt, a roundabout way for sure. This all came to me in a dream.  

Now when I plot the heavens, I no longer gaze only with logic. I remember the divine baby king in the cowshed, and smile, and cherish His mysterious gift of faith.

The Queen of the Mist

November 27, 2022 / / 2 Comments

By James Gonda.  

Bettie Oliver went over the falls in a barrel because she needed money. Her husband and his paycheck had perished in the Spanish-American war. To survive, she had to scrimp every penny. Oh, Bettie had a job—she was an itinerant music teacher. Her latest stop was Owatonna, Minnesota; her chosen instrument was the cello. But a widow living on a teacher’s salary in 1901 was a tough row to hoe, and Bettie had tired of the hardscrabble life.      

Our Bettie was 29 years old. She was smart and handsome with chestnut brown hair and root-beer eyes. She contrived the barrel stunt while perusing the newspaper. The Pan-American Expo was in full swing in Buffalo, New York, sixteen miles south of Niagara Falls. Thousands of people were flocking to the Electric City. The organizers had also billed the falls as a spectacular sideshow that one MUST see. When President McKinley came to the Expo two months earlier, even he went to experience the “. . . the grandeur and majesty of the falls.” 

Bettie read about daredevils performing exploits at the falls. The most audacious was the tightrope walker. He made the precarious trip over the roaring waters, one careful foot in front of the other. The article did not mention anyone going over the falls. But oh, what an attraction that would be! Then Bettie had a lightbulb moment. Imagine if she dropped over the falls in a barrel and survived. Why, fame and fortune would cascade over her like the falls themselves. Her bank account would rival the till at the local saloon, replete with paper money.      

Bettie launched her plan immediately. She hopped a train to Niagara Falls and found lodging in a cheap boarding house. She retained a manager to promote the event. She branded herself as QUEEN of the MIST. She looked to two celebrities for inspiration, Harry Houdini, and Nellie Bly. Houdini was the great escape artist of the day. Bly was the reporter who had circumnavigated the globe in less than 80 days. After her return, the world traveler embarked on a lecture tour and raked in the cash. Bettie dreamed of doing the same.      

Bettie went to work designing the barrel. It was a modified pickle barrel, five feet high and three feet in diameter. Bettie showed her rendering to a few barrel makers. Most scoffed and waved her off—they wanted nothing to do with her over-the-falls stunt. They claimed a public suicide would “taint” their business.

But Bettie persisted and found a manufacturer willing to make her sketch a reality. Kentucky Oak, as hard as steel, was the chosen material. Iron fittings bound the pieces together. There was cushioning inside and over-the-shoulder straps to hold Bettie in place. Carpenters drilled two air holes into the lid and then plugged them with corks. To right the barrel in the water, they encased a heavy anvil in its bottom. Once completed, the barrel weighed 160 pounds. Bettie herself painted it black and stenciled BETTIE OLIVER ~ QUEEN of the MIST on its side.

Bettie tested the barrel before her performance; she sent it over the falls with her cat inside. The barrel held up under the crushing water and the feline survived with only a small cut on its head. The rumor was the kitty went into the barrel a marmalade tabby and came out snow white, head to tail. The terror of the experience had altered its color.   

The day finally arrived for Bettie’s big show. It was also her birthday—the big three-o. A mass of onlookers had gathered along the riverside. Meanwhile, Bettie and her crew were upriver from the Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side. The outside temperature was 45 degrees and cloudy—a typical October day. Bettie waved to the crowd and then squeezed into the oversized barrel. A handler attached the lid and then pumped in compressed air with a bicycle pump. He yelled into a hole and asked if she were ready. He put his ear to the hole and then smiled. He turned to the crowd and gave a thumbs up. They erupted into applause. He stuffed corks into the holes and the Queen of the Mist was set adrift.

Before too long the barrel bobbed its way down the Niagara River. It moved at a rapid pace. As it reached the precipice of the falls, it disappeared into the mist. Then it dropped 158 feet to the rocky bottom. The crowd kept their eyes on the water, waiting for the big black barrel to reappear at any moment.

After 20 minutes or so, there was no sign of the barrel. Onlookers peered up and down the waterway and saw nothing. Her handlers gazed at one another, flummoxed. Where was their star? She should have reemerged by now. What could they do? 60 minutes passed, then 90, then several more hours. The Queen of the Mist had morphed into The Queen of the Missing.     

A massive search ensued involving scores of people and hundreds of hours. The Army sent a Search & Rescue team. They found nothing to show that Bettie Oliver had ever been near the falls. Who was her next of kin?

The indigenous peoples who lived in the area called the falls the God of Thunder. They venerated the falls and approached the roaring waters with caution and respect. For them, the falls was not a tourist attraction or a place for silly stunts. The falls was their cathedral.

Some believe the God of Thunder swallowed Bettie as an atonement for the sins of the Europeans. Others maintained she was a sacrifice, to appease the God of Thunder and remain in his (or her) favor. Either way, Bettie and her pickle barrel were gone without a trace. No one could offer a more plausible explanation for her disappearance.

Henceforth, no man or woman dared to challenge the falls for many, many years. The God of Thunder loomed too large and too supreme.      

Holly Jolly Folly

November 5, 2022 / / 2 Comments

By James Gonda

December 1899 

It was a dark and snowy night in the heart of Europe. Saint Nickolas had requested a special meeting with Krampus, the half-goat, half-demon creature who punished naughty children.

Every year before Christmas, Krampus would send Saint Nick a list of disobedient boys and girls. These children were to be apprehended and remanded to the lake of fire in middle Earth. Saint Nick would then remove these kids from the master list. This information was essential to know who got presents and who did not.

But on the most recent BAD list, Father Christmas begged to differ with a name scrawled in Krampus’ hand. There were extenuating circumstances in the life of this child, a boy 11 years old, that Krampus was not privy to. The benevolent Saint Nick felt called to have the boy’s name expunged from the list.

Saint Nick and Krampus met in the back room of a drinking establishment. A busty barmaid brought them ale in tall pewter mugs. They exchanged pleasantries. They lamented how busy they were. They agreed they both needed a break. Then they got down to business. Saint Nick started. “There’s a boy on your list who should be removed. He lives in a very harsh environment. His father beats him every day.”

“What boy?”

“That boy over in Hafeld.”

“Who?”

“The boy whose father keeps bees.”

Krampus thought for a moment. “Oh, right, I know the little angel.” He nodded. “His father beats him. So what? That does not give the boy a license to act out. I also know he slaps his sister around and disrespects his teachers.”

Saint Nick sipped his ale. He spoke sternly. “Now listen, Krampus. Not too long ago the boy ran away from home. Well, he’s only a child. How far could he possibly go? When he came back, tired and hungry, his father beat him more severely than usual.”

“That’ll teach him.”

“Then later when the boy went to pee, he saw blood in his urine, from the beating.”  

“A harsh turn of events, for sure.” He took a drink of ale and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you hear what happened when report cards came out last term? The child in question used the card to wipe his bottom, after he saw his poor marks. Howdaya think that went over?”

Saint Nick chuckled. “I can explain that too. The boy is in the wrong school. He’s a sensitive child. His father is pushing into math and science. He’s a budding artist! The poor marks were his way of rebelling. Why, we all rebelled against our parents as children.”

Krampus grunted. “I don’t understand your support for this kid. He’s a wicked little boy. I only see him turning into a wicked adult. Who knows what trouble he’ll stir up?”

Saint Nick spoke tenderly. “Now Krampie, this is only one child out of thousands I’m asking you to spare. We’ve known one another for a very long time, and I have never made such a request. See, I believe deep down he’s a good boy with a bright future. He sings in the church choir. He’s thinking of becoming a priest.”

“I thought you said an artist.”

“A priest and an artist. And if you’re not sold on the boy, then please consider his mum.”

Krampus looked confused. “Come again?” 

“This past summer she lost her younger son, a sweet and kind-hearted child, to measles. Now if she were to lose two boys in the same year, well, you must agree that her grief would be unbearable.”

Krampus sighed.

He scratched his cheek with a long and curved fingernail.

He folded his hairy arms across his chest and stared at the tabletop.

At last, he broke his trace and took a swallow of ale. He slammed the mug down and then belched. He looked to Saint Nick. “What’s in it for me?” 

“What did you have in mind? I am Saint Nick after all. How ‘bout a bicycle or a toy train?”

“How ‘bout no?”

“Perhaps then you’d fancy a food item?”

“Such as . . . ?”

“I have a ton of fruitcake with your name on it.”

“I like fruitcake.”

“Of course you do.”

“How much fruitcake are we talking about?”

“Enough to last ‘til next Christmas!” Saint Nick laughed. He reached over and squeezed Krampus’ shoulder. “Now whaddaya say, old boy?”

Krampus pondered the proposal. At last, he said, “Only this one child, right? You’re not gonna make a habit of asking for more exceptions, right?”

“No, of course not my dear Krampus. I would never impose on our friendship like that.”  

“I’m not an unreasonable . . . creature. All right, you have a deal. I will refrain from taking the boy for one year’s supply of fruitcake.”

“Now that’s the Christmas spirit!” Saint Nick clinked his mug against Krampus’ mug and then took a long drink. “You’ve done the right thing. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.” He reached into his pouch and extracted a heavy ledger with the names and addresses of naughty children. He opened the book. “Tell me again the boy’s name? Did you say it? I’ll cross it off.”

“Oh dear. You’re right, I never mentioned it, please forgive me. The youngster was christened Adolphus but they call him Adolf. Adolf Hitler.” 

Bobby’s Choice

November 5, 2022 / / 1 Comment

By James Gonda 

In the wee hours of May 4, 1966, I was summoned to the telephone.

Dr. Burkley, the President’s physician, was on the other end.  He sounded morose. He told me that Jack’s VD had flared up and sent him into a coma.

“For how long?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

Indefinitely.  For now, the President was in the basement of the White House in a makeshift hospital room.

“Who else knows?”

Outside of Dr. Burkley, a few Secret Service, and me, no one. I told the doctor I’d be right over and hung up.

In record time, I raced to the Executive Mansion and took the service elevator three floors underground.

My brother looked like a corpse! He was on his back, unshaven, arms to his side, mouth gaping open. I leaned in and shouted in his ear, “Jack?!”

No response.

I turned to Dr. Burkley; he shook his head.

I almost wept.

I regained my composure and went upstairs to the Oval Office.  I had all the President’s appointments for the day cancelled. I said he had a cold. Then I sat at Jack’s desk and began to think things out. I knew in this situation, when the President was incapacitated, the reins of power must be transferred to the Vice President. However, I had misgivings about making Lyndon Johnson acting President of the United States. If you know anything about Lyndon, then you know he had lusted for Jack’s job; if you elevated that jackass to the highest office in the land, even temporarily, then the chances of him relinquishing that power were nil.  Lyndon was a big man with a tight grip.

I mused how well things were going half-way through Jack’s second term: we were negotiating an arms treaty with the Soviets, the war in Vietnam was progressing better than expected, unemployment was down, economic growth up, and landmark civil rights legislation was to land on the President’s desk any day. And he had yet to be classified a lame duck – Jack’s political bank account showed a healthy balance to be spent wisely and strategically. And now this!  Why?  Things were falling into place! I pounded the desk with my fist.  

I noticed the telephone. Not the red telephone, the hotline to the Kremlin, but the telephone that our father had had installed (at his expense). It was the private line between Jack and Dad. Of course! Talk to the old man. Get his thoughts.

#

I never wanted any of this.

After we got Jack reelected in ’64 by a landslide – a reversal of the razor-thin election of 1960 – I figured he’d release me as Attorney General. I had done my part. His legacy as a two-term President was secured and it was time to move on. I wanted to return to Boston and conduct the most unexciting litigation possible: wills, trusts, deeds, and estate settlements. No big-time barrister for me!

Our father put the brakes on all of that. He insisted that I stay on, “to give the President someone to trust, implicitly.”  If you know anything about our father, then you know that Joe Kennedy always got his way.  And always an obedient son striving for his father’s approval, I consented to serving four more years.     

#

Dad was furious!

“Didn’t his doctor see this coming?” he fumed.  “What the hell kind of a quack is he? Fire the bastard!”

Dad always thrived on playing the blame game. He still blamed FDR for Joe Junior’s death in World War Two. Then he said something that gave me pause: I had to take over.

“Whaddaya mean?” I asked.

“You have to be President until your brother gets back!”

“That’s impossible.”

“No one more than you knows how he thinks, how he acts, and no one will be the wiser. Consider yourself his proxy.”

I’ll confess that for a moment, I thought his plan had merit and might work. Then reality set in. I recognized his proposal for what it was: an insane violation of the Constitution and told him so. He launched into a monologue:

“Bobby, when you were a child, I had written you off. I thought you were too soft, too kind, too generous, and didn’t have what it took to succeed. And for those reasons I ignored you and invested in Joe and Jack. Well, you’ve proven me wrong. You’re smart and scrappy and tough as nails, just like your old man; in fact, you’re more like me than the others. And you’re loyal. You’ve come a long way, sonny boy, and don’t let us down now! Do what needs to be done: Protect your brother, mask his illness, take the helm, and let the Constitution be damned!”

I was speechless. I thanked him for his input and hung up.

As a younger man, my father had yearned to be President. And after he realized that the Oval Office would never be his office, he vowed that his son would someday be the leader of the free world and succeeded. Now I was being lobbied – and extorted – to keep his vision alive. I felt powerful and powerless.

So, I sat there, in my brother’s chair, and thought hard about what my father had said and even harder about the implications of his words, if found out: a one-way ticket to Leavenworth! At the same time, I wanted desperately to please the old man, to make him proud, to show that the runt of the litter was really the prized hog. All my life, in all my endeavors, I had sought his attention and praise. Now that both were in my grasp – earned through hard work and pure tenacity – I wasn’t about to let go, especially when Jack’s Presidency was at stake. This very well could be my finest hour.

The intercom buzzed, loud and grating. Mrs. Lincoln, the President’s secretary, said Vice President Johnson was on the line. Did I want to take his call?

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