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Language School, Chapter One, A Novel in Progress

Chapter One

Maqluba, Malta March 18

As the trio left the ancient chapel, a large bird slowly circled high over their heads. It followed them for a while as they trudged down the dirt road that would take them to the crater, then seemed to lose interest and moved away to make a last circle over the center of the chasm before it flew off into the late morning haze.

Intrigued, Rick Olsen halted to watch it fly away. Its size and gliding flight suggested a vulture and he wondered what had brought it there. With a grunt and a shrug he rearranged the strap of the large wooden box he was carrying, then staggered forward.

Two steps ahead of him, the shorter man strode forward burdened only by a rope and knapsack. The third member of the group, a small white dog, joyfully pranced around them, thrusting his nose in the holes in the rock wall in hopes of locating an interesting critter.

"How much farther?" Rick asked, his enthusiasm for the hunt fading. Since his gunshot injury six months ago he had become seriously out of shape and the box seemed to be getting heavier by the second.

"Just around the bend," Charlie Mifsud replied. The road curved to the left to pass what appeared to be a large pond glistening in the sunshine. It was a mirage, a thin plastic blanket used to protect plants from the cold and to retain the moisture in the soil. Above and beyond this stunning illusion were the streets of the village of Qrendi. As they made the turn, Rick saw that they were headed toward a rocky climb and he let out a loud moan. "Shee-it!" "Cheer up," Charlie said. "We're almost there." Without warning, he turned on to a rough path to the right. "Watch your step." Rick did, threading his way past a discarded beer can and a slew of multi-colored shotgun shells. "Looks like the hunters come here," he mumbled.

"Yes. But not this time of year. The season is closed and the European Union has been insisting on tighter controls on poaching."

The dog dashed forward to the edge of the cliff and stopped abruptly. Tail between its legs, it backed up and walked stiff-legged to its master.

Rick laid the box on the ground and began to remove trowels, folding shovels and other digging implements. As he did, several large droplets of perspiration fell from his forehead. The men gathered up their equpment and strapped them to their utility belts. After he finished, Charlie removed his backpack and took out a heavy spike with a large ring at its top. Hoisting a heavy hammer from his belt, he brought it down on the spike with a mighty stroke. A sharp echo rang in the abyss, making the sinkhole seem desolate despite its deep verdure. After several more similar blows he laid the hammer down and gathered up a propylene-wrapped cable. Running it through his hands he found the end and fed it through the ring. A click of a powerful clamp securely lashed the rope to itself. Then, with a satisfied grunt, he got to his feet and unhitched another object from his belt. "Here Chip," he called.

The dog took two eager steps forward, then saw the sling in his master's hand and stopped short.

Charlie slapped his leg. "Get over here," he demanded in a stern voice. The animal whined, stuck its tail between its legs and slowly moved forward. It vented a frightened yip as his owner gathered him up.

Rick slid the last tool, a trowel, through a loop in his belt and wiped at his face. Despite the heat he could barely wait to get below and begin the search. "Ready?"

Charlie wrapped the sling around the dog and then raised the rude carrier over the top of his own head. "Time to get to work," he said. "Good old Maqluba, here we come."

Good old Maqluba actually was a roughly rectangular chasm overgrown with brambles and dense vegetation. Compared to the barrenness of the rest of Malta, it was a Garden of Eden. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was only one way to get to it. By rope. The ancient stairway, which stood just below the chapel, had long ago become unusable except to the most adventurous rock climbers.

After a tug at his belt to make sure it was secure, Charlie moved to the ledge and grabbed the cable. "See you down below," he said, stepping off. He was on firm ground before Rick reached the edge of the cliff.

After pulling up the rope, Rick turned around to stand with his back to the abyss. Then he closed his eyes and stepped back. For one glorious moment all earthly restraints disappeared. It ended quickly. A cold rush hit him as the rope caught him and he opened his eyes as he swung forward. His feet struck rock. Then he pushed back, swinging lower in a majestic arc. Seconds later he found himself on solid ground. "Lead on."

Charlie started off in the general direction of the base of the stairs, now visible some twenty yards away. "We'll go back to where I heard Chip barking," he said. "He was pretty excited and didn't come when I called him. I'm hoping he'll go back to the same place."

Chip wasn't happy about the leash but waited patiently as Charlie hitched it to his harness. Then he dashed off into the brush as soon as his little feet hit the ground.

The men took off on a run after him. "It looks like you may be right," Rick said.

The dog rushed onward, leaping through the higher vegetation and pulling Charlie forward where the foliage became shorter. As he pressed on, the heat became unbearable.

"Do you suppose we could slow down?" Rick puffed.

Chip answered the question. With an unexpected burst of speed he pulled the leash out of his master's hands. "Come back here," Charlie gasped.

The dog ignored him and headed toward a small stand of stunted cypress trees. As they ran after him, Rick's eyes started to burn. Then his overworked lungs began to burn, too, as he noticed an unpleasant odor.

"Jeez. What's that?" Charlie asked, covering his nose. "Look," Rick said, pointing toward the trees. Four large garden bags lay closely together some ten ahead of them. Chip circled them, barking excitedly. As they came closer they saw that three were tightly sealed, the fourth partially open. The dog sniffed at the opening and jumped back.

Rick knew why. The stench of decaying flesh had become unmistakable. "I think we better call the police," he said.

Copyright 2005

John Anderson is a full-time freelance writer who spent his younger years in a variety of occupations. The first was graduate student in history at the University of Minnesota, then as a noise pollution consultant with Hearing Conservation, INC. After returning to school to get a degree in education, he spent many years as a substitute teacher in the Minneapolis and St. Paul School systems. Sandwiched in, he ran a mail-order stamp business and was a member of the Army and Navy Reserves as an Intelligence Analyst. His first novel, The Cellini Masterpiece, took more than 35 years to write. He hopes the second will be completed within a year. John welcomes correspondence at http://www.cmasterpiece.com

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