Chiasmata

By Mike Paterson-Jones

What could a thirty year old American whose life revolved around drinking brandy and collecting shells on the island of Mahe possibly have in common with a teenage girl from England on holiday with her parents? Apparently little until he shows her an underwater hidden world and the silver cowrie shell. Their lives separate, but fate has a surprise for them both many years down the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Aug 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798891260276

Mike Paterson-Jones

Michael Paterson-Jones was born in the UK but went to Africa as a baby. He grew up in Kenya and Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. He went to university in South Africa. His early career was as an agronomist, industrial chemist and teacher. He married his Rhodesian born wife, Thora, in 1970. That year they bought a coffee farm in The Vumba, on the Mozambique border and lived there for seven years through the “Bush War”. They travelled extensively in Mozambique. They then moved to South Africa firstly to Cape Town and then to Durban. After twenty two years there and in Swaziland, as an academic, he and Thora lived for seven years in Upstate New York before returning to the UK.

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Chiasmata

by

Mike Paterson-Jones

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © 2023 Mike Paterson-Jones

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9798891260269

eBook ISBN: 9798891260276

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, August 21, 2023

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Cover Designs by Karen

Editor: Karen Fuller

Chapter 1

He took stock of himself. It was not going to be a good day. It had, however, been a good night; well, at least, a cheap night. The retired banker from Spokane, Washington, was single and therefore not on a leash and had deep pockets. Mark was happy to feed him stories of life on the island as long as the brandy kept coming. As he made his way from his room to the beach, he stopped and drank deeply from the garden tap. By experience, he knew this would help with his usual morning headache. His room was at the Sundown Hotel at Glacis but was actually a servant’s quarter which he rented for a nominal rent.

Mark was American and thirty years old. His light brown hair was unkempt, and he had a scruffy beard. He was tall, still muscular, in spite of his lifestyle and had a tan that would be the envy of most men. He was dressed in what had become his uniform on the island, a pair of shorts and a wrinkled, sleeveless t-shirt.

He had lived in a single room in a row of rooms behind the hotel’s main building for almost three years. His rent was cheap because he periodically helped Guy le Clos, the hotel’s owner, behind the bar or collecting tek-tek on the beach or fishing off Glacis Beach. He paid Guy US $ 30 a month, and this covered an evening meal he took with the maids in the kitchen.

The path from his room led down a sandy slope to the beach. Along the path was a row of crotons resplendent with their multi colored leaves. At the beach was a small grove of coconut palms which ran from the white sand up the slope to the road, which ran around the north of the island to Victoria. As he did virtually every day, he made his way to a spot next to a large round granite boulder and spread his now rather threadbare towel on the sand. He always placed the towel just in the shade. In an almost ritualistic way, he removed the full bottle of brandy from his linen bag, dug a hollow down to cool sand and buried the bottle. The next thing he did, which he always did, was to scrape sand into a linear heap over which he placed one end of the towel. He now had a pillow.

Through the slight alcoholic haze that filled his mind, the words of a poem by Longfellow kept repeating themselves and took him back to university and English Lit. 101:

And he wandered away and away with Nature the dear old nurse, who sang to him night and day, rhymes of the universe.

He did wonder about the relevance of the words to his current situation. He banished the words from his mind. He didn’t need reminding of the past.

******

He spent most mornings on the beach except for Wednesdays, and on those days, he went shell collecting. Every Wednesday, he caught the noon bus to Victoria, where he visited Kantilal Jivan Mohammed and then bought a week’s supply of brandy. Jivan had a general dealer’s shop, but, more importantly, he had the biggest collection of seashells in the Indian Ocean. His collection filled three rooms above his shop. He was an expert on cowrie shells. Mark had met Jivan soon after arriving on the island and had come to share his interest in shells. Mark did not have a shell collection and gave most specimens of interest to the Victoria shopkeeper. A few he kept in a shoe box in his room. Periodically he sent one or more shells, usually cowries, to shell collectors around the world. He inevitably had a list of clients who wanted a particular shell or shells. What he was paid for the shells added to the rather meagre income that he had.

On this particular day, he had just taken a swig of brandy, re-buried the bottle and laid down on the towel. He had covered his face with an old camouflage bush hat when he became aware of movement nearby. He was not used to sharing his part of the beach with anybody. He peered from under the brim of his hat and saw a young girl with blonde hair, a wide-brimmed yellow hat and a yellow sundress. She appeared to be about thirteen years old. She was tall and gawky looking but had a great smile and cute dimples on her cheeks. She was busy staking claim, with a bright towel, to a piece of the beach about ten meters from him.

Once she had placed a beach bag on her towel and put on a gaudy pair of sunglasses, she lifted her dress over her head to reveal a one-piece swimming costume. Dropping the dress on the sand, she ran down the beach and dived into the crystal clear, emerald colored water. The sunglasses fell off, and she replaced them on her head. For about ten minutes, she dived in and out of the water.

Mark watched the girl with vague interest. He had to stop himself from thinking of Cindy. One day Cindy would have been a teenager. He buried the thought of his daughter. He dug for the bottle and, lifting his hat slightly, took a large swig. He could feel the warm feeling the brandy brought. Looking towards the sea, he saw the girl had stopped splashing around and was watching him. He felt guilty and buried the bottle again as surreptitiously as he could.

He pulled his hat down firmly on his face and pretended to be asleep. He needn’t have bothered as a voice close to him said, Hello, I’m Virginia. I’m on holiday from England with my parents, and you shouldn’t be drinking so early. My father always says you shouldn’t drink until the sun is over the yardarm, whatever that is.

The firmness and directness in the youthful voice of the girl took Mark by surprise. Hi, Virginia. I am Mark, and I’m not on holiday from England. What time I drink is none of your business, said Mark.

I’m sorry, very sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut. My father says I have no connection between my mouth and my brain. I’m sure drinking on a beach in the morning is very good for you. With this, she went to her patch of beach and lay down on her side on her towel with her back to him.

Mark felt very guilty for apparently upsetting the girl but wondered at her last comment on the benefits of morning drinking. The beach returned to its normal state of silence except for the sound of wavelets breaking on the beach. Mark fell asleep. It was the girl’s cry that awoke him.

My god, it could have killed me, she said, looking at the large dry palm frond that had obviously fallen next to her.

Probably wouldn’t have killed you; only hurt you badly. For mortal consequences, a large ripe coconut is far better, said Mark.

The girl laughed and said, You’re American, aren’t you?

Yes, Ma’am. Guilty as charged. Former resident of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, now a permanent resident of Glacis, Mahe Island, Seychelles, answered Mark.

I’m from Staines in Surrey in England, where school is just tolerable, but life is so boring. Wish I could live here. What do you do for a living? she asked.

Very little. Most days, I stop my towel from blowing away by lying on it. I go to town every Wednesday, and when I feel like it and the weather is right, I go collecting shells, mainly off Beau Vallon Beach. Also, I do help at the hotel, answered Mark.

Are you a beach bum? asked Virginia.

That’s a bit rude, but I am a partial beach bum, I suppose, Mark replied.

How old are you? the girl asked.

Thirty, and that’s the last question today, Okay? With this, he walked down to the water’s edge and walked along one of the tidal lines along the beach. Several times he stopped and picked up something on the beach.

" When he got back to his towel, he dropped onto his knees and then laid out four shells. Virginia came over and looked down at the shells.

This one is a cowrie, he said, handing her a shell. It is called Cypraea Caputserpentis. That means ‘snakes head’ cowrie in Latin. All shells have a Latin name. This one is what we call a bit beach worn. This means that the animal that lived in it died quite a long time ago, and sand has rubbed off some of the shine. He handed her another shell, a flattish white shell. This is a Patella shell. Same name as your kneecap. The next one here is another cowrie, a Monetta or Money Cowrie. These were once used as money in many parts of the world. This last one is a Cypraea Tigris, the tiger cowrie. Silly name as it has spots, not stripes.

Wow. That is interesting, said Virginia. Please, can I keep these shells? I think I am going to start a collection. She looked at her watch and informed Mark that it was about time to go up to the hotel for lunch with her parents.

Can you teach me a bit more about shells tomorrow? she asked

Sorry, it’s Wednesday tomorrow, and I am going into Victoria, said Mark.

Can I come with you? she asked. It’s very boring on my own here.

I can’t believe your parents would like you to go off with a beach bum twice your age!! Mark answered.

We’ll I wouldn’t tell them that you are a beach bum, and I could make out that it is an educational trip. Besides, my parents are pretty obedient and mostly do what I want them to do! she stated firmly.

Okay. I’ll take you to see the biggest and best shell collection in the whole of the Indian Ocean tomorrow. Meet me at the hotel entrance at quarter to twelve tomorrow, said Mark.

Chapter 2

Virginia, dressed in shorts and a shirt, was sitting on a rock at the hotel entrance, watching a hermit crab taking its life in its hands crossing the road. Mark arrived also in clean shorts and shirt and had shaved and even combed his hair.

Hello Prof, you clean up quite well, don’t you! said a cheeky Virginia.

Hi, kid. No problem with the parents? he replied.

No, I just gave you a couple degrees, including one from Oxford. That made all the difference. But they want to meet you tonight to check you over. I said you would be at the bar around seven o’clock," said Virginia.

The bus was ten minutes late, which was of no significance in a place where time was of no importance. The bus was actually a three-ton lorry on the back of which were rows of wooden seats. There was a roof but no windows – good for hot days and bad for wet days. The bus headed south towards Beau Vallon Beach, passing a couple of small hotels on the way. At Beau Vallon Beach, Mark pointed out The Hotel de Seychelles that sprawled along the northern end of the beautiful white beach.

Not far beyond Beau Vallon, the bus took a road left that climbed up and over the mountain ridge that ran down the center of the island. Mark pointed out the mostly well-kept and pretty little wood shacks that were the homes of the poorer Seychellois. The young girl was entranced with what she saw and fired question after question at Mark.

They got off the bus in the center of Victoria near the town clock. Mark steered Virginia along the busy narrow pavement southwards until they reached a large shop identified as ‘Magasin Kantilal Jivan Mohammed.’ At the street