A path less straight (pt. 9)

Ein Kleine Nachtfahr

“So what is Amani Na Miti? Is it a village or somewhere with a proper hotel?” I asked.

“It’s a spot in a forest,” Egg replied. “The punchline to a joke that was not funny even before it was translated through three different languages.”

“Oh, no shower, then.” I sighed.

From the time we had landing in Nairobi I had realised that my perceptions of Africa were too much swayed by wildlife documentaries from the Serengeti to be anything approaching realistic. The city had scared me, too busy, too foreign, too far away from home for my sensibilities that were seeming more provincial by the day. Outside the city things were worse, people stared because we were different and it had taken me a while to work out it was nothing approaching racism, just curiosity.

“How come you never mentioned Machwa?” I asked.

“She’s my half-sister from Mother’s wild days, I’ve only actually met her a handful of times,” Egg explained. “I last saw her about ten years ago, she got into a fight with Aphelia, but we managed to separate them before the lightning and meteors hit.”

Conversely, Egg had taken it all in his stride, drinking in the differences and thriving on them. He had borrowed the four-wheel drive truck from one of Bracken’s business contacts, filled it with supplies from local stores and we had set out as though it were a quick trip to the seaside. It had taken us one day to leave the paved roads behind. When I objected to setting out into the wilds he had offered to turn around and take me back to the city, so I had steeled myself and told myself it was an adventure, something to make Janet’s much vaunted visit to Florida seem tame.

“Do you really know where Amani Na Miti is?” I asked.

“Yes, I spent the summer holidays there once,” Egg replied. “I think Mother was on the run from Interpol, but I was too young to understand that completely.”

Using snippets of different languages, hand signals and occasionally outright bribes, Egg had obtained fuel, services, accommodation and directions. I asked him why he did not just use a map, but he had explained that Amani Na Miti was not on the map and so we needed to get as far off it as we could. Which made as much sense as ever.

“I thought we’d see more animals,” I commented.

“There’s some chickens and a cow,” Egg said.

“I meant exotic animals, that’s just someone’s farm,” I told him.

“That cow’s pretty odd looking,” he said.

Egg had told me that we might have to rough it and had given me the option of flying straight home from Florence, but it was not until I was several days without a proper shower that I worked out the prospect of seeing wild elephants did not really balance out the hardships. Bumping along rutted dirt roads all day was not living up to the romantic level set by our Italian jaunt and I still had not seen an elephant.

“Look! Gazelles,” said Egg. “Or at least some sort of deer with funny head spikes.”

“You're no Attenborough,” I told him.

“And here, in their natural surroundings, we have the lesser mottled, pointy-headed, bouncing deer, ever alert for tourists and spontaneous photo opportunities.” Egg gave his best, but poor attempt at nature documentary voice-over.

On the forth day he pulled off the main track and took us down something that was more of an impression that someone had been along this way once before than an actual path. We stopped early and he cooked a meal of rice and local vegetables under a mosquito net hung between the truck and a tree. He lit a single candle and we watched the sun go down through the gauze. Even though the air was cooling quickly, he was sweating.

“We're nearly there,” he said. “When the sun goes below the horizon we should have about quarter of an hour before the full moon rises and we need to make the most of it.”

“Make the most of what?” I asked.

“The near complete darkness,” he said. “Let's pack up.”

We quickly dismantled out makeshift dining area and got back into the truck. It was then I realised I had no idea what he was planning. He started the engine.

“Shouldn't you put the lights on?” I asked. “Come to think of it, why not wait until the moon is up, it would be easier to see.”

“The idea is that you can't see anything.” He released the handbrake and we set off.

“That's not a good idea,” I told him.

“If you don't know something's there then you can't run into it” We were picking up speed alarmingly, there were no outside visual clues, but I could tell by the engine noise and the way the truck was shaking on the rough surface.

“That's nonsense.” My voice rose in pitch as my terror increased. “If I turn the lights off at home I still walk into the sofa.”

“But you know that's there, think of all the things you manage to walk through,” he said.

“Egg, this is madness! You're going to kill us!” I cried, on the edge of a scream.

I hung onto the seat, fearing that every lurch would mean a fatal collision. Egg had a look of total concentration, sweat beading on his wrinkled forehead.

“Nearly, nearly...” he chanted to himself.

I closed my eyes. It changed nothing but it allowed me to get a grip on my breathing and then my hysteria. I still had enough wits to notice we were not dead, the ground felt smoother under the wheels, smoother than any track we had driven in the last couple of days. I could almost fool myself into thinking we were just travelling along a normal road. I kept my eyes closed.

Suddenly Egg slammed on the brakes, the truck slewed slightly as it came to a halt. I opened my eyes. Egg was leaning back in his seat, panting. Gradually a combination of increasing light and my vision adapting brought me an awareness of our surroundings.

Right in front of us was a huge tree. We were on the edge of a forest clearing. Behind us were more trees and undergrowth. Somehow we had carved a path through the woods without leaving a trail

A path less straight (pt. 8)

Refusing the Italian job

“I think we’re being followed,” I said, overwhelmed with the feeling that somehow I had ended up in a gangster movie.

A long, low, black car had pulled out of the gate behind us, when I had taken Egg’s short cut along the farm track it had made the same short cut. It had then follow us back onto the road and was looming large and menacing in the mirror.

“Yes,” agreed Egg. “Sorry, I thought we could avoid something like this if we popped in unannounced.”

“You knew something like this would happen and you didn’t bother to tell me?” I was quickly throwing off the lethargy lunch had tried to induce. “And now we’re being tailed by the mob?”

“I misjudged,” he said. “He knew I would turn up and had prepared for it, that’s not good news. We’ll have to lose them.”

“How?” I asked.

“Our car is much smaller, we’ll find someplace they can’t follow,” he said. “Just drive like Bracken was teaching you.”

“Randomly and rely on hope to get out of this?” I felt a seed of panic start to germinate in my stomach. “What if they have guns?”

“Guns would turn this from a cheeky infraction to a major incident, he wouldn’t risk offending my family that much,” he explained. “Turn right when we get to the village.”

I increased my speed as much as I dared on the narrow twisting road, but habit made me slow down as we passed by houses and people. Turning right took us onto a road that lead straight back out into fields and farms. The black car was still behind us, I could see it on the short straights between bends.

“Left here,” Egg called.

I only just saw the turning in time and nearly put the car into a wall. The road descended, crossed over a stream on a little stone bridge and then climbed back up. Egg directed my through a farmyard and along a short, dusty farm track and then, on reaching another road right and into a village.

If this was a different village, then it appeared to be laid out very similar to the one we had already driven through. There were no satellite dishes or solar panels on the houses, and none of the few cars parked by the side of the road looked to have been made any later than the sixties. We rattled through the cobbled square and Egg directed me onto a narrow street that lead back out into farmland.

“Are they still behind us?” I asked, unwilling to take my eyes from the fences and stone walls as they rushed past us.

“Yes, but they’ve dropped back a bit,” Egg replied. “Take this right.”

Again we bounced along a farm track, grape vines lining our passage. I hoped the dust that the car was raising would obscure the view of our pursuers and then realised it was as good as leaving a trail for them to follow. Egg pointed out an opening on the right and we joined another track of hard-packed earth.

Oddly this led into another village, a rather grubby affair, the street became paved with stone only as we approached the inevitable square. A woman paused in tipping a bucket of dirty water into the street, a donkey hitched up to a cart gave me a wary eye as I skirted around it and a nun crossed herself at our presence. I noticed the lack of telephone wires and television aerials. I was about to comment on this when something struck me.

“Egg, it’s the same village,” I said.

“How can you tell?” He asked. “They all look the same to me.”

“It’s the same village, but as it was a hundred years ago,” I insisted.

We left the village square by another road which rapidly became a dirt track as the houses receded. A glance in the mirror showed me that the black car was now closer. I looked across at Egg for an answer.

“Get ready to turn left,” he said.

“I don’t see anywhere to turn,” I replied.

“You don’t see anywhere now,” he said.

“That’s what I said,” I replied, panic rising a little.

“Nearly, nearly,” he said.

“There’s nowhere to turn,” I told him.

“There’s nowhere yet,” he confirmed.

“Then how can I turn?” I asked, flustered.

“Turn now!” He said with such force I nearly heeling the car over into a ditch at his say-so.

But then I saw it, I spun the wheel as hard as I dared and the sound of tyres screeching on Tarmac greeted me. Suddenly we were travelling along a modern road, a sliproad, in fact, for a multi-lane highway. I merged behind a large truck with French plates and looked in the mirror for signs of pursuit. There was nothing but a gaily coloured hatchback filled with a quartet of chattering Italian women and a white van whose driver was leering at them.

My heart rate slowed and I let the traffic carry us along. Inside of me I started building up the ball of invective that I wanted to launch at Egg.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a fantastic getaway driver?” He asked.

I glanced across at him. The tension burst like a bubble and I started to laugh so hard that I could hardly see where I was driving. When sanity made it slow way back into my body I relayed to him what Isabella had told me.

“Pull over so that I can kiss you,” he said.

“You’ve been drinking,” I told him.

“I have,” he admitted, pulling out his phone and starting to fiddle with it.

“Now what are you doing?” I asked.

“Booking tickets,” he said. “I believe I promised to take you to the opera.”

A path less straight (pt. 7)

Statue limitations

Lunch was a succession of many small courses. A chef would have exclaimed over the elegant simplicity and the flavoursome local ingredients, I was too busy cramming it into my mouth. I was drinking water, a taste of the wine during the tour had been a delight, but I knew wine at lunchtime would only make me want to sleep all afternoon, besides, someone had to drive.

Egg had brought up the matter of his mother’s visit during a miniature but delightfully dressed green salad, but Giorgio had denied seeing her at all this year. Giorgio then regaled us with the story of how he and Egg’s mother had retrieved a statue from Talamone harbour without local officials, fishermen or the mob having a clue what they were doing. It was a ridiculous and convoluted tale of cleverness and daring with many grand hand gestures and interludes for refills of wineglasses.

“But when we found out the elephant was afraid of snow we knew we would never get the statue over the Alps, so we sat down and drank a bottle of wine each,” Giorgio explained over a tiny but perfectly delicious tiramisu. “That was a mistake, the elephant was a mean drunk. So we left the statue there and gave up the whole caper, which is how she got to be where she is today.”

He gestured out of the window. I turned my head to see the statue stood at the end of the driveway, smiling at me. The smile was earnest, maybe a little sad and not the same expression as I recalled her having when we arrived. As I stared she gestured her fingers in a ‘come here’ sort of motion, I put my spoon down slow and deliberately.

“I just have to powder my nose,” I said. “Excuse me.”

I let myself out of the dining room and along the corridor, but instead of going into the bathroom I tip-toed through the entrance hall out slipped out of the front door. Standing on the step and feeling a little foolish, I stared at the statue daring it to move again. Just as I had convinced myself that it had been my imagination she beckoned me over with her fingers.

Gingerly, I shuffled closer to statue. I swallowed, cleared my throat and was just about to ask her what she wanted when I heard the front door close behind me. Shocked, I whirled around, Isabella was standing on the step, observing me.

“She wants to warn you,” Isabella said. “ Giorgio has lied to you.”

“He has?” My heart hammered as though I had been caught pocketing the silverware.

“You boyfriend’s mother, she was here,” she explained. “I think she came not to see Giorgio but to talk to Rosamundi. That’s what I call her.” She gestured at the statue.

“What did they talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, Rosamundi never says anything, but Diana was talking about a man she no longer loved, she then asked Giorgio where her daughter was.” Diana, it was the first time I had ever heard her called anything but Mother.

“Her daughter, Aphelia?” My eyes flicked towards the dining room window, but the men were still talking and drinking, unaware of our conversation.

“No, she called her Machwa,” she replied. “He said she was in Amani Na Miti, but I don’t know where that is. There is one more thing, the wine they are drinking, it is special. Soon Giorgio will make your boyfriend an offer and he will be unable to refuse. You must take him away from here quickly.”

“Is that how you...? “ I could not resist asking.

“Oh, no. It is me that keeps him here,” she said. “I do my best to keep his business from hurting people, but some days I fear for his soul. Now, quickly before hands are shook.”

“Thank you, Isabella.” I turned to the statue. “Thank you, too, Rosamundi.” She did not respond.

As I re-entered the dining room Giorgio was offering Egg a cigar and Egg was accepting.

“You, know, a man with your talents could go along way over here,” Giorgio said. “In fact, what would you say if I offered you a position in my organisation?”

Egg was about to open his mouth so I got in quickly.

“Sorry, no business decisions while we’re on holiday, you know the rule,” I pulled an unresisting Egg to his feet and started to usher him out of the door. “It’s been lovely, thank you for the lunch, but I just noticed the time and Egg promised to take me to the opera this evening. If we don’t set off now I’ll never have time to do my hair properly.”

Despite protestations from our host I managed to manoeuvre Egg out of the font door and into the car. As we pulled away Isabella waved and I waved back. Giorgio has a suspicious look on his face and I hoped that Isabella had not done anything to put herself in danger, but she seemed unconcerned.

Rosamundi appeared to be nonplussed by the entire affair.

A path less straight (pt. 6)

The grapes of mirth

“So we’re just going to drop in unannounced?” I asked Egg.

“Last time I saw Giorgio he told me to drop by any time I was in the area,” Egg replied. “He’d be insulted if I did not take him literally.”

Either side of the road vineyards stretched over the hills. Egg drove the tiny rented Fiat with one hand on the wheel, content to leave the speed limit well alone. The one car that came up behind us was waved past at a wider part of the road.

I, too, felt relaxed. A meal in a compact, but excellent restaurant, followed by a slow and quite possibly romantic meander back to our hotel room in the old part of town had unwound me after our flight the previous day. I decided that I would just let the next weird thing wash over me without reacting.

“So who is he, exactly?” I asked.

“My godfather.” Egg answered.

Egg turned the corners of his mouth up slightly in response to my murdered rendition of the Godfather theme tune. He negotiated the car around a tractor before elaborating.

“He is an old friend of my mother. He used to be in the same line of work, but now he makes wine,” he said.

“So he isn’t involve in the mob?” I pressed.

“Cass, not everyone in Italy is a member of the Mafia,” he replied.

Our route took us through a village, the sort of place that tourists proclaim as enchanting and gets used in holiday brochures and as the backdrop to films, but with the tacked-on compromises for modern facilities and conveniences glaringly evident. The tiny houses crammed together proudly displayed their satellite dishes, Italian matron figures held mobile phones to their ears as they herded their grandchildren and the café whose chairs and tables spilled into the cobbled square advertised its free wi-fi.

Egg turned the car into a road that was little more than a gap between two buildings and then along a lane that could not make up its mind which direction is was supposed to be going. He slowed the car to a halt, licked his finger and stuck it out of the window, frowning. After a few seconds and before I could ask him what he was up to, we were under way again, turning down a narrow farm track, which led onto a wider road. He drove along this for a short while before turning to drive onto a gated driveway, the ornate gate swung open under its own power.

“Is this it, or are we lost?” I asked him.

“This is it,” he replied. “But he must have moved the gate since the last time I was here.”

The villa was a single story affair, built from weathered stone with a classic tiled roof, but I judged it more modern than its materials. It resided in a large garden of neatly mown and freshly watered grass, liberally sprinkled with well-coiffeured trees. A collection of buildings that ranged between ancient rustic shed and modern industrial unit lay to one side with its own road access, I took this to be the winery.

We parked by a weathered statue of a robed woman who stood in a circle of flowers at the end of the driveway. She regarded us with a permanently measured gaze. A small bird, perched on the hand of her out-stretched arm took offence at our arrival and fled twittering as we disembarked from the car and approached the door.

We were greeted at the door by a woman who looked like she was trying too hard to fit the role of wizened, old maid figure and ushered into an antechamber that was decorated strictly in the taste category with nothing from the catalogues of personality or comfort. It was a bit intimidating so I looked to Egg for reassurance, but he was staring out of a window. I followed his gaze to spy a courtyard bedecked in flowers with an ornate stone fountain.

“It is so pleasant to see my godchild again, and he has brought a beautiful companion.” I nearly jumped out of my skin, standing inside the doorway was a trim, tanned man with thick black hair, wearing a smart, grey designer suit with the collar open. He had a hook to his nose and his eyes were predatory, but the rest of his face was pleasant enough. His voice was deep and rich and his English carried enough of an accent to be exotic without being difficult to understand.

“My dear, I am Giorgio, welcome to my home,” he said.

I managed to murmur my own name and there followed a hand-shaking and kissing ritual in which he overshadowed the awkwardness on my part with the grace and fluidity of his own. He went through something similar with Egg that seemed better rehearsed and promptly told us that lunch should not be long and of course we were staying for it.

Egg had proved annoyingly fluent in Italian, it was handy, but it meant I was relying on him for communication. Now it meant I was standing like a lemon as a conversation that probably would have excluded me in English went on bilingually. I was rescued by a tap on the shoulder from a slim and exotic woman who was probably young enough to be Giorgio’s daughter, but somehow I sensed that she was not.

“You, must excuse the men while they talk of business.” She purred. “I am Isabella, let me show you around the winery.”

She led me away with a sway that could have graced the catwalks of Milan, and quite possibly had done, I considered. Her tour was bright and friendly, every step of the wine-making process had a funny story, and her depth of knowledge made me realise that she was far more than the trophy wife.

“I would have made wine anyway,” she confided. “But Giorgio’s money certainly made it easier. Now, here is the secret at the heart of my craft.”

The device made little sense to me. Something was obviously poured into the top and cascaded down a series of ramps, funnels and slopes until it ended up in a number of different barrels at the bottom. It was kind of like a medieval pinball machine built by an enthusiastic but quite insane carpenter.

“It’s, er, well, kind of...” I trailed off. I should have said it was a metaphor for my past few days.

“Let me show you,” she said.

She pulled a rope and a barrel at the top tipped grapes into the machine. They bounced and rolled down chutes and tracks. Some collecting in one trap set off a counterweight that redirected another stream, others spun wheels that altered the course in other ways. I stood there and laughed at the fairground of the grapes.

“Each grape is sorted by the machine so that the taste of each vat of wine is perfect,” she explained. “The original device was designed by Leonardo Da Vinci, but there have been some small improvements since then.”

“It’s fantastic,” I said. “I wish I had one to pair up my socks.”

A path less straight (pt. 5)

Around the bend

The sun was up at some unearthly hour. Eventually I stopped cursing its brightness and decided I might as well join it, with no cloud in the sky there was little chance of anything beating it.

I found myself alone in the cabin with no note explaining this occurrence. It crossed my mind that I might have been marooned here by the pair of odd brothers, but the keys to the hire car were still hanging on a hook. I had got as far as filling the kettle and lighting the gas before an aquatic commotion down on the lake shore disgorged Bracken onto the beach.

“Morning,” he said leaving a sodden trail on his path through the cabin. “Let me get some clothes on and I’ll make a start on breakfast.”

Some clothes turned out to be a pair of baggy shorts and a t-shirt bearing the legend ‘Atlantis 2008 – still soggy’, he had towelled his hair until it was a damp mess and left it like that.

“Now, my lady,” he said, taking a bow. “Wouldst thou liketh a cup of tea?”

He busied himself around the kitchen area, emptying most of the contents of the fridge into a large frying pan and sourcing some clean cups. With a steaming mug of tea in my hand, I asked him where Egg was.

“He’s gone for a walk to clear his head, poor little fellow was up all night trying to divine the future in the entrails of goats,” he replied. “Plus we might have decided to finish off that bottle of whisky.”

“Goats?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Bracken answered. “Nowadays we use computer simulated goats, it's just as accurate but there’s far less bleating.”

He lit the grill, cut the remains of a loaf of bread into thick slices, fussed over seasoning and then broke the remaining supply of eggs into the pan.

“I’ve been recalled, so we might as well use everything up,” he explained. “Roll-mop herring?”

I looked into the proffered jar and declined.

“I was going to set the little blighters free, but it looks like they’re too far gone for that.” He took one himself and chewed it slowly and noisily, a look of bliss on his face. “How burnt do you like your toast?”

Egg arrived just as Bracken was serving up, pale faced and sunken eyed.. The meal looked just like randomly fried leftovers, but smelled divine. We ate in silence. The toast was only very lightly burnt.

“So what now?” I asked, a second mug of builders-strength tea in my hands.

“Bracken’s contact says Mother flew to Florence, which means she is probably visiting an old friend who has a villa not too far from there,” Egg answered. “I’ve booked a flight and hotel there, or you can return home with Bracken, if you want.”

I cancelled thoughts of shoe boutiques and chic little restaurants and replaced them with spaghetti trees and olive-throwing competitions, still it appealed, so I agreed to a little Italian adventure.

“And the goat entrails?” I enquired.

“You learn to ignore anything my brother says eventually,” Egg replied. “Everything’s done on spreadsheets now. The best I can scry is that you should save your work often. Something’s not right.”

I drove the hire car while Egg dozed in the back seat. Bracken was navigating, although somewhat randomly, insisting that we stick to the gravel back roads that wound through the forests and calling turnings according to his whim. He cautioned me to watch out for the locals who all thought they were rally drivers.

“Admit it,” I said. “You have no idea where we are and we are going to miss our flights.”

“Nonsense, my dear lady,” he replied. “Has Egg ever explained to you about following roads where they want to take you, rather than forcing them?”

“I think he mentioned it once,” I said. “It didn’t make any sense then either, the quickest route is the shortest one, any navigation app will tell you that.”

I pulled the car over to the side of the trail and came to a halt. My phone woke at my touch, I flicked across to the appropriate icon, launched the program and held the device in front of Bracken’s face.

“See!” I told him.

“Yes,” he said. “Not far to go now.”

He tilted the phone so that I could see the screen clearly, the arrow indicated we were only a few miles from the airport. I tapped at the screen like it was a faulty dial, but the situation did not change.

“But, that’s not...” My words faded off. “But, look, we’re facing the wrong direction, right now you’re taking us further away.”

“I tell you what, how about a little bet?” He said. “Loser buys the winner a drink. We have to join the main road anyway, so you turn the car around and follow the map to here.” He indicated a spot close to the airport. “I’ll continue straight on and meet you there. I warn you though, I’m going to jog.”

“You’re on.” I told the maniac.

Once Bracken had closed his door, I turned the car quickly and set off with vigour, imagining I was one of those rally driving locals. Trees dashed by and stones rattled against the underside of the car. Coming around a corner it slid slightly so I reigned it in. A left turn took me onto a metalled road and I increased my speed.

The phone chimed and told me I should make a right turn, I slowed down as this was our finish line. Bracken was impossibly sat by the side of the road, a wild flower in his hand, he looked like he had not even broke into a sweat.

“You owe me a drink,” he said as he settled back into the passenger seat and threaded the flower into my hair.

As we parted in the airport, Egg urged Bracken to patch things up with Huggy, while Bracken urged Egg to grow a moustache. Bracken went down on one knee to kiss my hand and then flounced off to flirt with the girl at the check-in desk. Egg smiled and shook his head.

A path less straight (pt. 4)

My God, it's full of apps

With the boat returned unsunk despite Bracken’s best Admiral Nelson impression, we retrieved the car and Bracken directed us along a series of gravel roads to the wooden cabin he was renting. It looked like a completely rustic affair from the outside, with a separate hut for the toilet and no running water, but a wire promised electricity. Bracken had not locked the door, being short on pockets and long on trust.

Inside was more modern, with worn but comfortable furniture, a small, but ample kitchen and bedroom space on an upper level. Bracken handed us beers from the fridge and invited us to make ourselves at home while he dressed for dinner.

“He doesn’t seemed concerned,” I commented.

“Nothing bothers Bracken much, that what makes him good at his job,” Egg said. “Well, nothing except his relationship with Huggy, and that’s always on and off.”

Bracken reappeared in well-worn jeans and a shirt that had seen better days. He had his phone clasped to his ear and was having a rapid conversation that kept veering into something that sounded like Russian. Egg led me outside when his brother started banging about in the kitchen.

Down at the lake shore we watched the water and sipped our beer. The part of me attuned to city life marvelled at the complete lack of traffic noise. Tree rustled, somewhere across the lake a duck gave a raucous laugh, a series of waves lapped gently on the shingle beach, but there was no man-made noise other than that we made ourselves.

“Does he know where your mum went?” I asked. “When you two speak to each other I don’t catch more than one word in three.”

“He’s checking with someone who might know where she went from Vladivostok, but she didn’t say anything to him other than saying she was going to spend some time with friends and family.” He responded.

“That’s a start,” I said.

“The sky should be clear tonight, I’ll see if i can get through to Aphelia,” he said.

I frowned, the phone signal was excellent, I had made use of it to reassure my parents that I was not being spirited away to be married into a cult. Just then Bracken called to say dinner was ready and I never got around to asking him what he meant.

Dinner was salmon,accompanied by sautéed mushrooms, a mashed root that I could not identify and a sweet berry sauce, it was all excellent. Bracken said he had caught the fish himself, although I saw no fishing equipment, and everything else was gathered from the forest. He admitted that the beer was shop-bought, as it was out of season this time of year.

Throughout the meal he asked me everything about myself, recanted tales of his time in Russia that all seemed to revolve around potatoes or vodka or often both and let slip a few stories about Egg. I asked him what he did in the family firm.

“Trouble-kneeing,” he said. “Its like trouble-shooting, but instead of going in all guns blazing, you creep up on trouble, tap it on the shoulder and then, when it turns around, you knee it in the knackers as hard as you can.”

“So, why do they call you Bracken?” I asked.

“Because that, my good lady, is what it says on my birth certificate,” he replied with a straight face.

“He’s named after where he was found,” Egg added. “Some negligent sasquatch parent abandoned him in the undergrowth.”

“How dare you besmirch my honour!” He cried in mock anger. “Actually, its where I was conceived. Of more interest is why we call my brother Egg.”

“And why is that?” We had briefly giggled over the names in each other’s passports at the airport.

“Because after three live births, our mother was fed up with pregnancies, so left him in a nest for Dad to sit on.” He replied.

After more beer Egg taught me how the Finnish use a sauna, although I was glad he suggested we use bathing costumes rather than leap naked into the lake. I was a little dubious but there was no showering facility. Emerging from the water I felt clean and relaxed, the sun was just touching the trees across the lake. As I redressed I checked my watch, I recalled setting it to local time, but it did not appear as late as it should have been.

Egg and I sat on the lake shore and watched the stars slowly come out of hiding above us. There was a hooting and hollering as something naked dashed from the sauna and plunged into the water, Egg shook his head slowly. The splash turned to a wake and then vanished from my view in the gentle ripples.

“There are many more stars here than at home,” I commented.

“No lights to scare them away,” he explained. “Perfect for calling Aphelia.”

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, but instead of making a call he thumbed open a star-gazing app and placed the phone on the ground. Gazing out over the lake I could almost believe the stars and their reflections formed two separate hemispheres of night sky, leaving us adrift, floating amongst the points of light. Egg stood, looking up and turning, as though looking for a particular star.

Some stars seemed so close and bright. I twisted my body, but could not see the trees and cabin behind me, just more stars, my change in viewpoint making them into new and different constellations. Something nagged me that they should not behave like that.

Egg put his hand on my shoulder and pointed out a shooting star, it seemed impossibly close. He took a half-step forwards and made a grab for it. Opening his hand, he showed me a little sparkling sphere about the size of a ball-bearing. I suddenly recalled the mushrooms Bracken had prepared for dinner.

Threading her way through the shining throng was a short woman in a summer dress, her curly hair cascaded down her back and she was barefoot. As far as I could tell she had just materialised out of the air, but then I was too mesmerised by the surrounding galaxy to be a credible witness.

“Egg,” she said, with a voice that seemed all sparkle and comets. “Unexpected and long distance. It’s Dad, isn’t it? His heart.”

“Yes,” he replied. “You knew?”

“We’ve always been very close, even when we are so far apart,” she answered.

“I’m looking for Mother,” he said. “Has she been in touch?”

“She called me from Baikonur three or four months ago, we argued as usual, you know what she thinks of my marriage.” She shook her head lightly and frowned. “After then, nothing.”

“This is Cass, by the way,” Egg said belatedly. I smiled and waved, wondering if there was some sort of protocol to be observed. She greeted me in return and went on to ask about Vesta, Egg reassured her, but I could not help feeling there was something between them they were avoiding discussing in front of me.

As they spoke Aphelia slowly became less distinct, her voice sounding like she was drifting away from us. She finished with a warning.

“Be careful, Egg, there’s something major brewing and they don’t always let the junior members of staff in on that stuff.”

“Something’s been screwing up forecasting recently, I was told it might be a storm of some kind,” Egg said. “Do you think this may have something to do with Dad?”

“I don’t know, I’m too far away to have a clear picture,” she replied. “You need to find Mother to get to the bottom of it. Be careful who you trust. Take care, Egg, give my love to Vesta.”

With that she was gone. Egg stood still for a moment and then bent down, retrieved his phone and put it back onto standby. I realised I could see the trees and the lake again; the stars were once again distant pinpricks of light, still beautiful, but not quite bursting with same amount of splendour.

“That’s enough star-gazing, I think,” Egg said. “Fancy a night-cap?”

A path less straight (pt. 3)

Needing a bigger boat

“Are you sure Vesta’s going to be okay with your aunt?” I asked Egg somewhere over the North Sea.

We had deposited the girl in a cottage halfway up a hill in the middle of nowhere. Someone had added electricity and indoor plumbing, but the rest of the house looked unaltered for the last two hundred years and that included the furnishings. There was more than a healthy number of cats.

“Lily is my aunt by marriage, now divorced from Uncle Fez, she’s just normally odd,” Egg explained. “It will do Vesta good to get some country air, and avoid the telly and the Internet for a while. She likes cats.”

“Normally odd?” I enquired.

“Normally odd is buying a house in a remote area and filling it with a feline collection, the equivalent in family odd would probably involve building a successful urban giraffe farm.” He took a sip of horrid lukewarm tea. “Its Bracken’s expression.”

It was an early morning flight and possibly due to dozing lightly on the plane everything felt as though I had not woken up and was still in a dream. We had our passports checked, collected our luggage and hired a car. Egg drove us a short distance until he found a café at which we sat outside and drank coffee.

My senses slowly came awake as the caffeine joined my bloodstream and I took in the differences that make a place foreign, all of which were small but somehow made it like suddenly finding yourself on the wrong side of the mirror. The language, of course, was a complete mystery to me, but Egg appeared to know a few words here and there from a previous visit. The weather seemed far too sunny and warm for the distance North we had travelled.

“Have you figured out where we are headed?” I asked him. He had a small laptop open on the table and was taking advantage of the café’s free wi-fi.

“Here,” he said, rotating the computer so that I could see the screen.

Egg had run a local news story through an online translator. Reading through the mangled English interspersed with Finnish words the program had baulked at I gleaned the tale of encounters with a lake monster.

“And this is something that was likely to attract your brother?” I asked.

“Bracken loves to swim,” Egg told me in lieu of an explanation.

We took turns to drive, stopping frequently to buy refreshments, stretch our legs and take in the air. Helsinki was quickly left behind, the road signs all pointed to unfamiliar places, but the map program on Egg’s phone was unerring in directing us to the small town outlined in the article. I had given up trying to pronounce place names, the combinations of letters appeared all wrong to me.

The road took us through forest and past lakes and farmland, gradually the mix changed, more forest and less farms and then the lakes started to become more dominant. I had quickly vetoed Egg’s choice of West African pop played from his phone and the local radio stations with their incomprehensible adverts, so we voyaged to the sounds of seventies disco I had downloaded onto my MP3 player one night while drunk.

At our destination Egg managed to hire a small boat for the afternoon. We chugged gently out onto the lake, passing a bunch of kids clowning about on inflatables. After rounding a headland the town disappeared completely, leaving us alone on a glass-smooth surface. Fir trees lined the shores and for a moment I thought us fully alone in the midst of a wilderness, until Egg pointed out the summer cottages. Set back slightly from the lakeside, they were spaced out evenly so that each never had to glimpse its neighbours.

Somewhere out on the middle of the lake Egg turned the small outboard motor off and let us drift silently. The water formed a mirror of the sky, blue and flawless. A quiet lapping of water was the only sound.

“Is this your plan for finding your brother?” I asked Egg quietly, not wanting break the peace.

“I admit I hadn’t thought much further than this,” he murmured in reply. “Just sit back and keep an eye out for lake monsters.”

I scanned the lake, adjusting my hat to cut out more of the glare from the sun. When I glanced back at Egg he had his eyes closed and was breathing rhythmically, sprawled on the seat at the back of the boat. Stern, I reminder myself, I wondered if nautical terms applied to small boats.

My eyes wandered and my mind relaxed, recalling the last time I had been abroad. I had been with Jason, all he had wanted to do was get drunk, party until the small hours, sleep until the afternoon and then repeat. Somehow I could not imagine Egg doing the same, even if we had not been attending a family emergency I surmised we would probably end up doing something similar as we were doing now. I wondered if it was the disturbed sleep or too much sun that was turning me sappy.

A line of bubbles rose up through the lake to my left, I peered into the water wondering if there were fish down there. Something indistinct moved in the murk and was gone. Further out a large v-shaped wave pointed at our boat and the was gone, I did not know if I had imagined it. The boat moved as though suddenly caught in a current.

I turned to wake Egg and a flipper or tail breached the surface of the lake about four metres from the boat, it had protruded half a metre from the water and then slipped back under. My mouth gaped open and my arm, outstretched to shake Egg, dropped back to my side.

Something grabbed the side of the boat and I gave an involuntary shriek. My eyes quickly focussed on a tanned hand.

“Sorry,” said a deep, melodious voice in a sheepish manner as a head appeared from the water. “Hey, bro, what are you doing all the way out here?” It added, spying Egg.

Egg helped his brother into the boat. Bracken, in way of thanking him, managed to soak Egg quite well. The brotherly love calmed down a little as Egg turned the boat around and explained the situation.

Bracken was taller and better toned than Egg, his hair was much longer and lighter in colour. You could have missed the family connection altogether, but then I caught them both with the same thousand mile look in their eyes.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself,” said Bracken, standing up in the boat and taking my hand in his. “I am Sir Bracken, a crusading knight from Beauchamp Avenue.”

He bent lithely at the waist and placed his lips on the back of my hand as though he was dressed in his court finery and not just a pair of tight swimming trunks. Egg rolled his eyes.