The Diviner

The Diviner

by

RODNEY ST CLAIR BALLENDEN

This is the final edition of The Diviner Copyright © 2023 after an extensive re-write and edit, and replaces all previous editions.

Copyright © 2018 cover art work by PJ

Copyright © 2018 text by Rodney St Clair Ballenden.

Originally published as Grace ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4797-9107-1 eBook 978-1-4797-9108-8. Here, rewritten and published with KDP, under the title The Diviner. All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

to those who risk the fall of love

They set out heading north, as requested by Grace, and it quickly became apparent that they would never advance beyond the first dune. One dune appeared exactly the same as the other. They rose up the one and down the other. They moved on a plate and the plate tipped them up and down without itself moving. They appeared as a giant beetle in a sea of sand. Every rise presenting the same horizon as far as the eye could see. And their amazement knew no end. Not a tree. Not a road. Not a single blade of vegetation anywhere.

To think of all the creatures living here, said James, excited about the possibilities.

Nothing lives here, Grace was quick to reply.

Wait until the sun goes down. James smiled. He knew the score. Every habitat has its unique residents. This is home to many.

That is why I was born for the city, Grace said.

Caruna sat in the back quite happy to listen to yet another duel between James and Grace, challenging each other’s reality. James knowledgeable in all things of nature, where the fittest survived; Grace, all things of the street, where the survivors were not necessarily big or strong.

(from The Journey of The Diviner)

Book One: The Party

Lie still, Grace hissed.

She slithered across the floor.

Naked. Her elbows firm.

And paused at the window.

I want to hear you come. She raised her hand. No surprises. She cocked her arm, bent like a snake. I mean no harm. Really. Trust me. She rose, balancing on one knee. You…you are so cunning, and she reached for the wooden horse ornament on the shelf.

The first shard of sunlight sneaked through a crack in the curtain. Naked too. Unashamed. Slithering across her arm. She felt the heat and gripped the ornament with both hands.

I hate surprises. Come on. I dare you, Grace threatened. Make a noise…just one. I want to hear you. She raised the wooden horse.

The beam of sunshine hesitated. It spread across the window sill caressing the edge.

I am a night owl, she pleaded. Ten more minutes…please. Give me…just this once, and she laughed. What’s ten minutes to you? Huh? You’ve got all day.

But the beam had no other course. It tumbled over the shelf and rippled across the carpet, intent on corrupting the shadows. It was forced out last night. Now it returned, the outcome determined, and a single minute lost denied the meaning of its being.

Grace hit it. Once. Twice. Hitting with all her might.

I hate you, she cried.

Dust rose from the carpet, caught in the cross fire of wind and light, scattering to every corner of the room.

Hate you! Hate…hate…hate, and she beat herself to exhaustion.

She crawled towards the bed, her knees raw, her voice spent.

I know you can’t, Grace admitted, her whisper a mere rasp. "What’s a little time…that’s all I ask? She collapsed, closing her eyes not to see, her sensibilities torn by the inevitable.

A river of sunlight spread over the duvet and up the wall. It could not obey any other calling. It had but one ruler, the maker of life, effervescent and perpetual, bound by the grace of God to secure the creation of man. It came in silence and forever would.

I don’t believe in you any more, Grace muttered.

She uncurled from the floor and stood.

She surveyed her bed; a shipwrecked island of dreams, an island of only one player and many pretenders. The duvet a crumpled heap. The pillow lay on the floor, twisted over. Grace ripped a towel from the rack and wrapped herself up to her chin, like a frightened mouse buried in the soft furls.

You’re just an excuse. Big old man, Grace continued to mutter against the grace of God. So is your sun…just a fire. That’s all. An inferno in a heap of parts…nothing more. I was doing fine. Dead to the world...and then you came along. No warning. And so hot.

She listened to the noise from the street outside, livening up, her ears pricked to every sound. A car horn blared, sirens wailed, and people talked, their voices loud as they passed her window. She lived on the ground floor and loved it.

Hello world! She greeted the new day, wishing otherwise.

She glanced at her face in the mirror and stopped to take note, patting the sleepiness under her eyes, patting harder and harder.

You were late last night, she scolded herself. Sweetie, she added to rub it in. Don't slouch, she reminded herself, pulling in her tummy.

At twenty-eight years of age she kept her figure trim by walking wherever she went. Grace was savvy enough not to rely on her good looks. Every night she climbed into bed exhausted and awoke each day in a storm of discontent. Her looks haggard and beaten, the art of service her weapon of survival.

She replaced the wooden horse back on the shelf and gazed around her room. She may live in disorder, but she liked her stuff to stay in the same place. A bench made from a leather saddle took up the whole of the one wall, her clothes piled on top, thrown haphazardly to fall where they would.

Her norm was to dress in a rush, her body and clothes instantly compatible. Her hair was thick and bouncy, her skin lightly tanned and unmarked. Her job was to stand up straight and step out boldly. Her beauty would do the rest.

I believe in that, she said, and headed for the shower.

She paused at the CD player and dropped an old vinyl disc of Elvis Presley onto the turntable. She and Elvis sang together, I Just Can’t Help Believe It from the album Always On My Mind, Grace imitating Elvis, as he said, thank you, and miming to the chorus. In the shower she turned on the cold tap. Full blast and plunged in, howling like a coyote.

Caruna diTenchi, a thirty-five-year-old Italian, stepped from his shower, steam billowing behind him. His skin lobster red, sexless and ageing. Condensation dripped from the walls of the shower. He tiptoed into the bedroom, his feet pink, the carpet plush, and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. Without drying, he pulled on a fluffy white dressing gown and rubbed his hair, rubbing vigorously against the shivers. The cold awakening him. His eyes, charcoal black, deep set and furtive, darted from one corner of the room to the other. His mind clicking into gear. His hair, cut to a fuzz, accentuated the block of his head. He looked like a centurion. Aggressive. His shoulders square. His head top-heavy. His feet big and his buttocks small. He shimmied across the carpet, tiptoeing through an imaginary bed of thorns. Even in his shoes, he walked on thorns.

Caruna diTenchi was not a handsome man. His wealth made him look better than good.The bedroom was a sumptuous chamber fit for the very blessed. Apart from the bed, side table, and one chair, no other furniture decorated his space. He was a single man and lived in a cavern. A carriage could park in his bedroom. And the bed was the carriage, a square chunk of real estate so enormous he could sleep on it top to bottom or sideways, spread like a starfish. The four posts were the size of tree trunks. The ceiling, like a mediaeval chapel, curved inward to form a dome above the headboard. And the side netting around the bed rose from the floor to the centre of the dome. His bed was a sanctuary within a sanctuary. And Caruna would dive into its folds, burying himself in the duvet and pillows. He was an angel diving onto a puffy cloud.

Caruna lived in the western wing, on the second floor of his father’s house. He had programmed his routine to an exact schedule, not to accidentally bump into anyone else using the stairwell. His mother lived on the second floor, but in the eastern wing. His father lived in the annex on the ground floor. Occasionally, Father would use the stairwell to visit Mother. Caruna was comfortable with that. But he was not comfortable living in Father's house. Caruna yearned for his independence. He would surrender all of his comforts to have his own home. The timing of his move baffled him. It trapped his mind in dark places. He dared not risk offending his mother. He dared not remotely hint at any ungratefulness for the support and kindness shown to him by her should he ever move out. Any move of any kind, even a diplomatic shift, would be felt as a betrayal and that was simply impossible to contemplate.

Mother sided with Caruna on many family matters, but that was just the speaking part. She had long ago decided not to protect her only son from his decisions. Nor would she initiate any change in the status quo. Father, on the other hand, would accept a curt handshake on any deal and Caruna could leave with no love lost and no disrespect either. Between father and son the understanding of ignominy so mutual that nothing said was more than enough.

Go boy! Get on with it, Father would say.

Ever since he had come to live on Father’s estate, Caruna had never been forced by circumstances to seek employment in the real world. Here, there were no contractual requirements, where failure ultimately lead to dismissal. His work on the estate, coupled with his father’s business interests elsewhere, afforded Caruna the lifestyle of a wealthy countryman. He had all the perks of an unlimited budget. This only deepened Caruna’s misery.

Unless…and he dare not dwell upon the idea too long…unless, he carried out a daring adventure. Something outrageous. Something worthy of the expense. Daring. That was it. So, he held onto this feint hope, preserving his sanity by just the very thought of it. Through some daring adventure he could exit the darkness. Succeed, in a mad cap scheme, and he would find the key to his escape. Success, the key. But, the adventure must be an expensive one. That would make him a man, and as a man, Mother would let him go.

His strategy was to bide his time.

He would initiate only the smallest of moves.

Yes. One-step at a time. And the image of himself as a man soared, as he tiptoed across the thorns in the carpet. Since money was not an issue, and the coffers forever full, nobody needed to save. In fact the more they spent, the more normal their lives appeared to be. Caruna had always spent. Now, in keeping with his image, he decided to spend on the dream that no one else could afford.

Today Caruna was not his usual carefree self. He had the poetry of his vision in mind but not the realities. His head a confusion of muddled messages. Should he do this adventure or that? And should he do it this way or that? And who to lead? And what to wear. What image should he project of himself as a man? He tied his tie in a perfect knot, exactly as his father would have it. In fact, he never choose his clothing; it choose him. The suits and ties of his everyday wear hung several rows deep on the racks in his dressing room, and he would plunge his hand into one of the rows, and pull out whatever he grabbed first. Only Marco, the butler, could tell him what suited, what fitted, and what did not.

Just as deftly as he had tied his tie, he now ripped it off and flung it aside. I’m not going to work, he scolded himself. Never again. Huh! How’s that for daring?

He selected a khaki shirt and rolled the sleeves up to the elbow. Then rolled them back down two notches. He’ll think I’m a nerd, and Caruna laughed So what! He said, I’m paying. I can be as nerdish as I want. He growled. Make him scared, and he growled again. Like that, he encouraged himself. He may not be the right man for the job…what the hell. I have to start somewhere. This is it.

He picked up a pair of shorts from the chair, tore off the cellophane, and slipped them on. He looked down, his expression a picture of disgust. He rolled up one leg of the shorts. Then the other. And his disgust deepened. He unrolled the shorts and shook his head.

I’m too white, he said. Like a frog in a jar.

He pulled and ruffled the shorts, trying to make them appear older and used. He tied a heavy belt with brass knobs and a shiny buckle around his waist, tying it as tight as he dare.

You’ll choke, he warned himself, and let out two notches. Look natural. What the hell are you thinking, huh?

He selected a pair of sunglasses from a rack of many, and picked up the cologne bottle but changed his mind.

The flies will love me. A bit of body odour, yes, that’s manly. Right. Brace yourself, and he slapped his cheeks. Avante, he barked, and marched out the door.

Caruna walked towards his red Ferrari waiting in the driveway.

And Marco held the door open.

Caruna still tugged and pulled at his shirt and shorts, tetchy in the starched material. He tipped his finger at Marco and slid in behind the steering wheel. He touched nothing. It was all set and ready, as it should be, even the window wound down to his liking. As always.

Speaking in Italian to Marco, he said, Don’t laugh, Marco. I’m on safari. Me tough man. Yes?

Marco bowed graciously and closed the Ferrari door.

It clicked perfectly shut.

Caruna snapped on the safety belt.

I wanted this thing at night, he began only to trail off and tug at his shirt, and then his pants.

You’ll be back early, señor, Marco replied.

Not to eat, Marco.

Marco bowed discreetly. To change, maybe, he said, and with such grace, Caruna missed the point.

Caruna gunned the Ferrari along the driveway, determined to meet this challenge in the bright sunshine of the day. The trees bordering the driveway slid over the bonnet and straightened up behind him, breathing a sigh of relief as their fallen leaves scattered without being crushed. Caruna relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, comfortable in the ability of the red machine to hold the road. The ornate iron gates of the Villa Villari Estate opened as he approached. He swung into the country lane, speeding away without looking back. The past had happened. The future was within his grasp, just one meeting away.

Grace, closed the front door to her flat and skipped down the stairs onto the pavement. The mighty lust of day awakening in her. She walked off briskly, like a swan swimming upstream, her scarf a beacon of colour amongst the drab grey of the pedestrian traffic, her hair flowing and worthy of every look. She paused on the curb watching the oncoming cars for a gap, more accustomed to crossing at night, than in the mid-morning rush hour.

Caruna's Ferrari approached.

Grace hopped back. Usually cars of that class stopped. This one didn’t. She smiled at the driver, but the Ferrari sped passed too close for her liking.

Caruna concentrated on the traffic, nervous outward, aggressive inward. Keeping his distance. Keeping his cool. He turned up a side alley, his eyes searching for the one parking spot he expected to find. The temperature on the dashboard gauge read twenty-four degrees. For early November, that meant summer had arrived and from today on the temperature would rise. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror and flattened his hair. The fuzzy look new to him. His old style had hung down to his shoulders and covered his ears. He hated it when the wind blew. He would never wear a pony tail. A hat, yes, although usually a bandanna tied around his head, a red one with a star in the middle and the two ends knotted at the back. Today’s safari suit an attempt to look tough and rugged. First, he cut his hair. Then, he bought these clothes. This meeting demanded the macho fuzz and short pants. It also demanded the stare.

Caruna could never rely on his looks to attract attention.

He had a noble bearing. His attitude stylish. A bit aloof, but then he could afford to be aloof. His dark looks and foreboding mannerism were more in keeping with a hostile tribesman, than a pampered Italian. To add to his bearing of nobility, he deliberately chose one item of clothing to attract attention. Something dazzling. It could be his headgear; an armband; a belt or a totem pinned to his top pocket, like a feather or a flower. He would never wear a T-shirt with a message. He was just not that common. Once, he wore a false moustache, but that felt so phoney, he tore it off and had to race home to stop the bleeding.

Caruna parked expertly. Two quick glances each side. A spin of the wheel and he was in. To the casual observer it would appear that the Ferrari was magnetically attracted to the curb. He drove without effort and that usually meant without focus. He was not a natural driver. He bored quickly. All the mechanics, having to synchronise the pedals and the gears, confused him after even a short drive. His feet seldom attached to his eyes. On long trips he would rather sit in the passenger seat and talk, than have to concentrate on the road. To date, he had never been on a long trip, that is, not in the company of someone else, let alone a crowd.

Caruna counted to three, before opening the door. He hoisted himself out of the bucket seat. This count thing he had added to his disciplines as a fillip to his bearing. He justified it by warning himself, that sudden movements would cause undue stress to his spine. He planned to live to a hundred, and thereby thwart his family genealogy which, by default, should have him in the grave by seventy or less. Tempering his love of red wine he did not include on the list of disciplinarian behaviour. Ha! Nor his attraction to beautiful things, especially women. Not that women were a thing. On the contrary, women were top of his list. The greatest wonder of the world, he assured himself. His catholic upbringing allowed him to flirt, and flirt across the board, irrespective of colour, creed, and social standing. A beautiful woman rated over the one hundred per cent of all targets and he relied on that instant attraction device of his to quash his hidden shyness.

Don’t grab, he warned himself. Open yourself. Allow her in. That’s the rule, he said with conviction. Vulnerable! Vulnerable! Rule number one. He wanted to teach himself to wait and bide his time. Not like the old days of grab and run. Keep eye contact, he continued to educate himself. Don’t show your teeth and never assume the prey wants to be eaten.

Caruna practised a new style of walking. He checked his reflection in the shop windows, correcting the image as he walked. First, he slouched. But that was not his style. Then, he stalked his prey, leaning forward on the tips of his toes.

Too bold, he decided.

He crouched in the walk, as if cocking his rifle, ready to fire. Suddenly, he stopped, angry with himself for playing such foolish games, and adopted his normal style, hanging his jacket casually around his shoulders. The typical Baron. Suave. Walking purposefully, but without appearing to hurry, and avoiding, at all costs, the image of the plebeian officials on their way to work.

James Barkhuizen sat at the busy corner bistro, his coffee long since drunk, the cream around the rim dried and crusty, and his patience long since fretted away. He turned around to look behind him, willing the improbable to happen.

Nothing happened.

He tapped the table, his frustration spilling over. For the past hour he had waited. He was not an egotistical man, pumped with his own self-importance, but…

An hour! And he spat the words out.

He stood, opened his wallet, and stared at the contents. Not much. One big note. That was all. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to break it, not for another cup of coffee.

Tonight, he assured himself. I'll save it for a couple of beers, and he tucked the wallet away.

Plan A. James Barkhuizen always had a plan. In fact usually two. Tonight, he looked forward to a beer, perhaps in the pub across the square. Then, he would go back to his drab apartment overlooking the Brixton Tower and sleep. His apartment only had one bedroom and that with a single bed. A dining room counter and the lounge made up the rest of the apartment, and the lounge was only big enough for a woven grass mat with two leather beanbags, facing a black-and-white television set. There was not much in the fridge and less in the cupboards. He did not call this home, but three or four times a year he needed to come into the city to follow up on business contacts, and purchase the building materials and food stuffs needed back at base. He lived on a property outside the Orpen Gate on the southern border of the Kruger National Park. That was home and where he planned to live out the major portion of his life.

He belonged to the bush. In all the years he had guided clients through the Park, few had admitted they belonged where they lived. One woman was so convinced the bush was her home James married her. After a single, hectic, frustrating year she returned to the city, where she had said she did not belong.

And a burger, he muttered to himself, increasing plan A to something more substantial. To hell with cooking, he added.’’A couple of beers, burger, done.’’ The deal signed and sealed.

He plucked a twig from the pot plant to scratch his gums and stared across the intersection. He was a rugged man. Handsome, in a dark way. A man amongst men, the billboard would say. And tanned so deeply the hair on his arms had given up growing, singed to exhaustion. He never combed his hair, even the wind was confused as to which way to blow it. The stubble on his chin grated every time he rubbed it, like an iron mesh, and his teeth shone a brilliant white, and he kept them brilliant and white by biting the dust in an open jeep.

Fuck’n people, he snapped at the pedestrians rushing past his table.

A young lady stared at him, her eyes milky in their own importance. James hissed at her and she marched smartly away. He saw Caruna approaching and stabbed the twig back into the pot plant, sitting upright, stiff and aloof, staring into the distance.

Caruna weaved around the tables, appreciating the glances of the other patrons, his smile sickly but charming, and sat opposite James.

You want another? he asked, tapping James’s empty cup.

James shook his head.

A beer?

Again James shook his head.

The Skeleton Coast, Caruna blurted out, coming straight to the point. James folded his arms, his eyes almost closed, sinking deeper into his darkness. You scared? Caruna challenged him.

Restricted. James growled, still miffed at having to wait. He would keep the conversation to the minimum, and snap out his frustrated remarks, forcing Caruna to work for the information.

By whom?

Anglo.

I’ll speak to them.

Like hell, and James looked away. This guy must be nuts, he thought to himself. No one walks into Anglo and asks permission to drive around their diamond fields. Not even the receptionist will buy your Italian charm and big money, James taunted Caruna.

Maybe, you’re not up to the job, Caruna quipped, acting suave, playing dumb.

He still smiled that sickly charismatic smile of the wealthy. Caruna knew that every man had a point of surrender, set by their family, and in James’s case perhaps his father. Or perhaps, his grandfather. Or what if the chemistry of James’s singular parts concocted it from the collective authority of both? Ha! Caruna chuckled, assuming that, perhaps, James did not have a point of surrender. Perhaps, God forgot to give him one.

So…what’s the deal? Caruna chirped. That means the price.

This was another crossroad Caruna had come to know; that every man would compromise pride for material gain. Only a child hung on, and that understanding was the key to the day when Caruna woke up to the fact that he was busting his head against the wall of pride if he avoided on gaining something from a deal gone wrong. Settle for less was better than settling for nothing. That became his standard and the first day forward on his journey away from childhood.

The waiter arrived.

Café solo con cognac, por favor, Caruna ordered, not bothering to address the waiter. Clicking his fingers, he added, Uno bocadillo de jamón. Nice and thick,’’ he added, his fingers double square.

The waiter looked at Caruna dumfounded, pencil poised.

Caruna smiled, this time genuinely amused. Of course. Sorry! He said and reordered, speaking English. Strong black…with cognac. You have a crust roll. Yes? Caruna asked, his fingers describing the roll.

The waiter nodded.

With ham….please.

Of course, sir! The waiter spun on his heels. With ham.

Turning to James, Caruna continued, I think I’m in Italy, huh! Speeka da English, please, he joked, and kissed the tips of his fingers. This place...bella, I lova dis place, he laughed.

I hate waiting, James replied, muscling over Caruna’s Italian bravado with a personal matter of grave importance.

Caruna tossed a thick envelope onto the table.

For this you can wait. Yes! Look! Caruna stood to show James his new shorts. See! How beautiful. I have some nice boots too. Caruna placed his boot on the chair. Perfecto, no? I am ready to go. You say. I go. Yes! Avante, ha.

James stuffed the envelope into his top pocket. That’s the cheap khaki, he said, pulling at Caruna’s shorts. It won’t last in the African sun.

How long? Three weeks? Caruna said. I tell you what, I’ll decide the route. Yes! Caruna squared up to James. What you think. We go somewhere safe? Maybe Durban, huh? and he laughed.

James shrugged, not at all amused.

We go slow. Yes. When it comes too hot, we stop and sleep. Nice sleep. Caruna added, My shorts last longer. Ha! Ha! He laughed as only the bored can laugh.

Make the trip simple, James replied. As you say, somewhere safe, for you to relax and enjoy yourself. Then, he added with a no-nonsense edge to his voice, All the papers stamped and approved. I won’t get involved in anything illegal…you understand? James leant forward to emphasise his point, I don’t know you. It's been many years, and things change. The offer you made sounds good. Yes it does…but…but I won’t sell myself to the devil.

Caruna nodded. Of course. Huh! Of course…no devil. He tricky bugger. I understand. I want to go easy too. I want to look and experiment. Of course…but…but I don’t want to spend all day in the blasted car. No! We get out. Yes! We get out and we walk, not far, I mean for a picnic, huh? On foot. Yes. We can feel how to behave in nature. His coffee arrived. He paused. The waiter placed the ham roll in front of Caruna and the cognac to one side. Caruna tossed the cognac back and sipped his coffee. Bien, he thumbed the waiter and winked. When the waiter was out of earshot, Caruna turned to James. Okay, he said, Here’s the deal. I know about the Skeleton Coast, of course, we cannot go there. One day maybe. Now, we go to the north. I am writing a book, and up there, in the far north, I need some information. I also want to play music. Special music, in a special place. You will hear. Beautiful carols. You like music?

Caruna waited for James’s reaction. There was none. James got his kicks from sun and mosquitoes, not music. Caruna picked up his ham roll and took a bite, chewing slowly, watching James. I like music, Caruna continued, his mouth full. Opera music. I sit very still. I listen. No jig and pop stuff. No! No! No!, Because, I like to wait for the emotion…it seeps into me…inside. Yes. Like this, and Caruna punched his stomach. Beautiful, yes…ah music, and on this trip I want to play my music and you will hear it…everybody will hear it. Yes. Beautiful. And loud. I like loud.

Caruna was a patient man.

He had always been patient. He was born that way. Tolerance was another natural trait. He accepted an opposite opinion and never felt the need to fight to defend his. He argued that if you fight you have already lost.

He leant forward and whispered to James, We must take a third person. One more, I think…to split us, yes. No two men.

You can take as many as you want, James replied, nonplussed.

Three. Caruna held up three fingers, three crooked fingers. Someone to change the tyre when we have a puncture, he added, and patted James in the spirit of two comrades embarking on a dangerous mission. We stick together. You me. Yes, he says. Like boys, huh.

I do all the mechanics. James now laid down his rules, telling Caruna, that on a trip such as this, there could only be one chief. I will lead, he insisted, I fix anything that breaks. I don’t want you idiots fiddling with my vehicle.

Caruna accepted.

No idiot mechanic, he agreed, holding up his hands. Not me. Okay! You are the chief, but I tell you where, cappito.

Caruna outlined the route they would take from Johannesburg to the Far Northern Cape, stopping briefly in Kimberley for a little business, as he described it, and a week in the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park. Then, down to Cape Town along the west coast with an overnight stop in Paternoster, and a real adventure to Tietiesbay, where they would camp on the beach.

Tietiesbay, Caruna laughed, What a beautiful name. No! Look, they named it after all the sailors who were washed up on the beach after their ship sank. Those poor sailors were delirious and near death and they imagined they saw naked women dancing in the waves. Imagine that, huh! Dancing naked. So, they named the place Tietiesbay after those beautiful bare-breasted maidens. We go there, he insisted, his eyes wild. We have fun in Tietiesbay. Good for us boys, and he laughed. Yes.

You will play your music? James asked, angling for a joke.

Of course, Caruna replied, then added more rules to the trip, saying, I pay for everything. Everything. Ha! No. Except the trinkets you buy in the shop. Caruna rubbed his hands in the pleasure of paying for everything. I pay for the bed, the fuel, the fix up, for everything you can break. My heart is much excited for this adventure, he said, his excitement teetering into the excessive range.

James pulled the envelope from his pocket. He counted, slowly, methodically. Just this? he scoffed. We go a long way on a little.

No! Not all, Caruna admitted. Half maybe. I have to pay the other people something as well.

I won't drag a trailer. We agree on that. James stopped counting, stuffing the envelope back into his pocket. Half, you say?

I am not sure. Now, I think more, Caruna waved his hand in