G

CHAPTER 1 - The Woods

Theresa sensed the fall-rotted leaves deep inside her dreams, blending with and beginning to overpower the sweet choking smell that flooded her nightmare. Slowly consciousness crept up to her eyes, but she kept them clamped tightly shut. "It's only a dream," she repeated to herself, over and over, clinging to the mantra Uncle Selmon had taught her. She reached for the pillow, a clutch of reassurance she often used to bring herself back to reality from these dreams.

But her hand clutched only rotting leaves.

Stiffening, her every sense awoke. Heart beating wildly, she slowly and carefully opened her eyes. She lay in a forest, wrapped in a thick but scratchy worn blanket, of mottled greenish brown. It was wool and smelled of sheep. A dank mist swirled between the trees, limiting the view from her prone position. It was early September and this high in the Alps leaves had begun to fall and a chill braced the air. A few feet away she could see where a shallow hole had been freshly dug.

Theresa lay paralyzed for what seemed like hours but was only seconds. She could hear no sounds other than her own pounding heart and the rustling of wind in the trees. Slowly she rolled to one side and raised to an elbow. The mountain fell rather steeply to her left but she lay in a slight depression, hollowed out by the towering roots of a long-fallen forest giant. She wondered briefly how the woodcutters could have missed one so huge. The upended roots offered some shelter but one of them dripped on her scalp and she reached reflexively to sweep back her mass of soft wavy brown hair. A fresh shock of panic swept through her as she realized her hair was shorn. She grabbed for the butterfly opal. It was there.

"Its only a dream," she tried repeating to herself, half whispering it aloud. But she knew it was not a dream. The cold damp was real, and the scratchy blanket was ugly. She scootched closer to the tree, staring at the freshly dug hole, and pulling the blanket closer around her. She tried to collect her brains, the way Uncle Selmon had taught her. "Sit quietly," he said. "Slow down your head. Let your thoughts present themselves one at a time. Then figure out if they are true."

"Stifle the panic and anger." It was as if Uncle Selmon were actually talking. "Let your thoughts come one at a time."

The first thought that came was - "Uncle Selmon is dead". And she knew that was true. Even though she had been warned to pretend he wasn't.

She decided first, she better think about her body. She could feel everything , except her hair. The anger surfaced again and she battled it down. Nothing seemed to hurt, other than that she was stiff and cold from the hard ground.

Her hand went back to her hair. It had been the thing she was most proud of, and it had comforted her to twist her fingers through it whenever she was sad, or afraid, or lonely, which was quite a bit of the time anymore. Well, she had better cry about that later. Uncle Selmon would have told her it would grow back, wouldn't he? She tried to put thoughts of her hair aside, but it was hard.

She seemed to be wearing the same pajamas she went to bed in last night, and as far as she could tell they were still in place. She was barefoot. She tried to summon up thoughts that would tell what happened, why she was here. But all she could remember was going to bed in the dormitory and then the sweet choking smell that had flooded her nightmares. The nightmares had been about vultures and helicopters and the villain in a science fiction book she had been reading, so she knew they could not be true.

The freshly dug hole must mean something? Was it to be her grave? If so, it wasn't finished, it wasn't half big enough for her, but there was no shovel or anything about. She could tell it had been dug with a shovel, a small one, the edges were sharp cut and clean. So, perhaps someone was coming back, and perhaps she better leave. Now!

Quickly she pulled herself to her feet, using the tree roots as a lever. Ready to run, her instincts and the cold told her to grab the blanket. One step and she was stopped short. On the other end of the blanket, staring her down, stood a very large, very black, Labrador Retriever, teeth clamped on the thick wool.

And then she saw it. A small white envelope fastened to the blanket with a large safety pin. It must have been inside, next to her, probably to protect it from the damp.

With trembling fingers Theresa inched toward the dog and retrieved the envelope. At any rate she couldn't run. The dog would probably come after her. She didn't think Labrador Retrievers usually attacked people, but this one was awfully big and muscular. He didn't look unfriendly, but then he didn't look friendly either, and he was definitely going to keep her blanket.

She opened the note. At first she thought perhaps it would be from Uncle Selmon, or rather whomever had been writing her letters as Uncle Selmon. She knew Uncle Selmon was dead. But it was not. It was handwritten, rather quickly she thought, but it was no one's handwriting she recognized.

"Dear Theresa," it began. "Please try not to be afraid. At least not yet. What happened was necessary for your safety. I'm sorry about the hair. But you are going to have to be someone else for awhile and those tresses were just a dead giveaway. If you look up under the tree roots you'll find a roll of clothes - I put it there to keep them dry."

She glanced up, and there wedged among the roots was a plastic bag, with the polka dotted logo of a store she was unfamiliar with. The note continued. "Put them on, then put EVERYTHING, including the bag and the blanket, into the hole I dug for you. Chauncey will take it from there. Go with him."

There was no signature. Who was Chauncey? The dog had let go of her blanket now and watched her intensely. "If I run, he'll catch me," she thought. "What would Uncle Selmon do?" She didn't really know. So far her life had been one long confusion.

Theresa reached for the bag. It contained jeans, fashionably worn, a white turtle neck, and a welcomingly warm dark green sweatshirt with a brown eagle embroidered on the front. Her throat caught a little. She recognized the sweatshirt as being from a catalog place in Idaho, a catalog she used as a wish book the three years she had been in school there. Maybe her guardian angels, embodied in the dead Uncle Selmon, were watching over her. On the other hand perhaps it was a trick. She'd been told they'd read her mail. But she didn't know who "they" were. She had once asked for this very shirt for Christmas, was it now two years ago?

There was also a dun colored watch cap and sneakers that looked as if someone rubbed them in the dirt to give them a worn appearance, although the insides were new, and some slouch socks and underwear. The bra was way too big - whoever bought this must not know what she looked like. Probably a man, she thought. She never wore one anyway and threw it into the hole.

Turning her back to the dog through some strange sense of modesty, she quickly changed, then tossed everything remaining into the hole. Just get out of here, her brain screamed. But which way, and what about the Chauncey mentioned in the note? Was someone coming for her? Was he nearby, watching. If so, she hoped he had a shovel. The dirt was wet and cold and she suspected the hole had best be covered. And camouflaged. Uncle Selmon's voice was telling her to go.

Then the dog stood over the hole, a clear plastic bag in his mouth. Her hair! Her beautiful hair! The dog dropped the bag into the hole, then deliberately, with careful paws, began clawing the dirt over her discarded stuff. He pawed the ground then, raking leaves over the broken ground. She knelt to help him, biting her lips in anger. A few tears of mourning for her beautiful hair slipped out. She quickly wiped them away in silent fury.

"You must be Chauncey," she said.

CHAPTER 2 - TO THE ROAD

The ground was rough but Theresa was skilled at scrambling through unpathed mountains. She has loved mountains as long as she can remember, roaming wilds of Colorado when very small, often alone. Later she tried to roam the mountains of Idaho and Switzerland, but the "wardens" kept catching her and hauling her back to campus. Wealthy kids parked in these places seemed to have an unusual inclination to run away, and the schools were always on guard.

Chauncey, if that was the dog's name, was a good scrambler too, picking carefully along the steep slopes, seeming to know where the rocky cliffs were. And also, she hoped, knowing where he was going. Were she not terrified, this would be a wonderful escape from the school. She looked down at impossibly steep emerald green valleys threaded with small streams. A few white houses with gray roofs clung to the slopes. Swiss cow bells sang softly in the distance.

Chauncey would trot ahead, reconnoiter, then look back and watch while she caught up. He was big, sinewy, and stoic. She tried to read his eyes but could not. She wished he would wag his tail, or lick her hand, or show some sign of friendship, but he was all business. Serious business. What am I doing, she wondered. Blindly stumbling after a strange unfriendly black dog! Should I try to go back to the school? But she didn't even know where the school was, and something about the thought of going back filled her with foreboding.

The dog kept a steady pace, and Theresa was panting now, trying to keep up. A dog was not going to outdo her! They seemed to be getting lower now, the houses looked larger, and soon they broke out to one of those extremely steep Swiss pastures sparsely populated with giant bovines the color of gingerbread men. The big cows were one of Theresa's favorite Swiss images, though she had never been this close to one. The nearest one looked at them casually, swinging her melodic bell just enough for one clang. They didn't seem startled by Chauncey, nor by her.

The dog kept to the shadow of the wood now, working his way down. It was so steep that she slipped once on the wet grass, adding a muddy stain to the seat of her jeans. She could see a stream not far below - shallow but fast, rushing over stones. It paralleled a country road, paved but narrow, on which she had so far seen not even one car.

At the stream Chauncey finally stopped by a large boulder. He just looked at her. "Well, Chauncey, if that's your name, what do we do now?" she asked. "Cross the stream to get to the road?" The dog looked at her with what she was sure was disapproval or disgust. Then, putting his big black head down he began to shove her backward. Finally she got the idea "Get behind the rock, dumkopf!. Someone is after you!" Theresa collapsed behind the boulder, and Chauncey jumped on top of it, standing watch.

She put her head against the rock and wished for the blanket she had buried in the hole. The mist was damp as rain, and she was getting cold. Careful now, don't cry, she told herself. Uncle Selmon would not be proud of you.

CHAPTER 3 - the TRUCK RIDE

Uncle Selmon was much on her mind. He was always much on her mind, even though he was dead. He still wrote to her. Only it wasn't him. Or maybe it was. An unembodied sort of Uncle Selmon. But she knew he was dead. She had seen him dead. And she had sat by him dead for hours.

It seemed so long ago - four years seemed like forty. And Colorado was as far in the past as Jurrasic Park. It was a sweet time, with the sky and the mountains and the llamas. How she had loved the llamas. Maybe that was why she loved the Swiss cows. They were the same color as the llamas. Her llama anyway. She had cried for her llama, in the night at the school in Idaho, when she was eight years old. And she had cried for Uncle Selmon. She had cried for a month. And after that she never cried. She had done crying.

The rock was hard and cold against her back, and she was at the point of getting up, chucking Chauncey, and taking her chances with the road, when a coughy three-wheeled truck clattered up the road. Chauncey gave a quick bark, vaulted off the rock, and splashed expectantly across the stream.

The truck door popped upon, and Chauncey, her stoic black leader, jumped in, all friendliness and wagging tail. Cautiously Theresa stood, looking bedraggled and uncertain, she was sure. She could see the lone driver in the shadows of the cab. He appeared to be a grizzled old man with a weathered face, and he gave a quick "come along" jerk of his head, while rubbing and hugging the dog.

There seemed nothing else for it, so Theresa sloshed across the frigid ankle deep stream, and squeezed herself into the dog filled seat of the little truck. The old man smiled at her, kindly she thought, and sad. He had electric blue eyes, not at all watery with age.

It seemed there was to be no conversation At least it was warm, even though it smelled strongly of damp dog. The truck chugged along. Chauncey put his head in her lap and let out a sigh.

CHAPTER 4 - THE FARM

After some time they turned up a steep skimpy dirt road and bounced through the ruts for what seemed like forever. Chauncey kept losing his balance and falling into her at every pothole. So far the old man had said nothing, and neither had she. The mists lay along the mountains like wisps of that white stuff the Swiss school used on the Christmas tree. It always stuck her fingers and she did not like to fool with it - but it was pretty on the mountains, prettier than on the Christmas tree. She had always planned that when she grew up, if she ever did, she would have a real living Christmas tree with real snow on it. She guessed it would have to be outside. She would wrap all the presents in red plastic.

It was starting to get dark. Here in the high Alps dark came early. The sun didn't have much room between one peak and another, and anyway there had been no sun this day. Theresa was sore and tired, and her wet feet were squishy in her socks. From time to time she grew desperately tired of being scared, and almost slipped off into a fitful sleep. But not quite. The old man stared ahead into the dwindling gloom.

The last jolt was a bad one, but then they stopped. Theresa squinted into the mists. There were no lights nor any sign of habitation. Fleetingly it occurred to her that this might be just a more convenient grave than the one in the mountains. It was certainly remote. Then Chauncey sat up and licked her face - just one lick - but somehow it was reassuring. Usually she hated dogs that licked.

Out of the dimness she finally made out a rough stone cabin, with no lights. The old man was heading for the door, and jerked his head for her to follow. Chauncey bounded away, disappearing through tall grass, and Theresa stood hesitantly by the little three wheeled truck. She could just make out the open door, and the tall woman within. The presence of the woman made her feel better (illogically, she told herself) and she slowly approached the old couple, who embraced gently before the old man disappeared inside.

With a deft quickness that belied her apparent age, the old woman drew Theresa inside, pulled heavy woven drapes that must surely cut out all light, and struck a match to an old-fashioned lamp. Theresa's throat caught in an involuntary knot, the lamplight on the stone walls brought back images of her childhood in Colorado. Images with Uncle Selmon in them. Images tucked away deeply in her inner self, images which she could never share with anyone.

The old woman's face was a bit craggy, with a medium deep tan, and her gray hair was loosely pulled up in a bun that reminded Theresa of someone - maybe Katherine Hepburn. She wore a long loose skirt in an odd floral pattern, a worn gray sweatshirt with paint stains on it and a turtleneck that looked suspiciously like silk. An unfinished watercolor lay on a rough table and Theresa supposed that accounted for the paint splotched sweatshirt.

She didn't say anything either, and neither did Theresa.

What was this code of silence? Theresa wanted to scream, but she could not. Somehow, she couldn't make a sound till they did.

The woman kept her face out of the light, but she gathered Theresa into her arms and hugged her hard, once. For a moment, Theresa felt a pang of recognition. Could this be her Mother? No, probably too old. Her grandmother? Why did she seem so familiar? As far as she knew she had never met her Mother or her Grandmother. They were supposed to be dead. At least that was what Uncle Selmon had told her. Or had he only told her he thought they were dead?

The woman swept the watercolor to the floor and sat Theresa at the small table. From a small wood-stove she dished out a generous helping of some sort of noodles, placed the pewter plate before Theresa, and adjusted the position of the lamp so the light fell on Theresa's face, and not on hers. The noodles were surprisingly good, soft with a creamy sauce that must have had some veal in it once. Theresa ate in silence.

Just as she scooped up the last bite, the old woman blew out the lamp. Startled, Theresa choked and sputtered, then felt firm hands on her shoulders. The old woman had drawn the drapes open, and the now clear sky sparkled with stars. Gently the old woman pushed her toward a ladder, and left her to make her own way to the loft by starlight.

CHAPTER 5 - The Loft

It was warm under the heavy down, and her feet were finally dry. Probably not her soggy socks though, which she had consigned to a heap on the floor. She must have slept. She wondered how she could sleep in such bizarre circumstances. Perhaps she was drugged? She didn't feel drugged though - just slightly lethargic. Perhaps adrenaline wears off after a while?

And with exhaustion the mind just gives up and shuts down?

She watched the last stars fading from the sky as dawn broke over the black masses of the Alps. For once she had not dreamed. No dreams of Uncle Selmon, or Colorado, or even the aliens in the last science fiction novel. She was addicted to science fiction she assumed. It made her own life seem more sane.

The quiet was broken by murmurings downstairs. Suddenly the adrenaline was back and Theresa was rigid in the bed, straining to hear. Cautiously she slid an exploratory foot over the edge of her bed - really just a straw mattress on the floor. On cats-knees she crept to the opening and peered through the rungs of the homemade ladder to the small room below.

The old woman stood by the stove, back turned. The old man was at the table, eating some kind of gruel.

"How did they find out this time?" the old woman asked.

"Who knows," he responded. "Vadrian's got half the world on an electronic string, and Shov is psychotic."

Theresa must have shifted because the floor squeaked, and the old man looked up. He smiled at her, gave a jerk with his head that said "come down", and went back to eating silently.

Well, they weren't mute anyway. She would ask questions this morning. And she would get some answers. Who was Vadrian? That rang no bells.

Someone had been up in the night and left her a new set of clothes. Dry shoes and socks - hooray! Another pair of jeans, not so worn, a rather attractive patterned wool button-front vest and a long sleeved white blouse with ruffles at the neck. Altogether a moderately expensive and moderately non-descript looking outfit She didn't like ruffles, but she didn't exactly have a choice since her other clothes were gone. She missed the green sweatshirt with the Eagle.

Mostly she missed her hair, when she went to comb it with her fingers. The tears started to come again but she forced them back. Now that it was short, it felt like it was much more curly. She supposed the weight, or lack thereof, accounted for that. She wished for a mirror, then noticed one tacked to the wall. Yes, her hair was quite curly. She had been told often that it was magnificent - but that was because of it's length and thickness. She hated its color. It reminded her of a muskrat. A dirty muskrat. She wished it were red or blond or black or something different - anything different. Now it was nothing.

Finally she swung over the ladder and slipped quickly down. She had been pretty good at gymnastics, and was proud of her ability to control her body, even if it was only on an old ladder.

But both the old man and the old woman were gone. On the table sat a bowl of corn flakes, or something like corn flakes, a pitcher of milk, a couple of brotchen, (the ever-present European hard rolls which Theresa really liked), and an unopened jar of peanut butter. Well, someone must know something about what she liked. Peanut butter was not so easily come by in Europe, most of her non-American friends thought it tasted like brown glue.

Theresa fingered her opal butterfly. She didn't really understand it, but it was a talisman or something. It had been so long now, almost four years, she was only eight. She found it hard to remember which parts of the story were true and which she had made up in her fantasies. She just knew it had something to do with her identity.

Perhaps the old people would have some reaction to it? Should she expose it? She had always worn it next to her skin, even to bed, even in the shower. It was a beautiful thing, iridescent blue and green, flashing bright red when turned a certain way. The opal formed one wing of a small gold butterfly, the other wing, in shadow, was solid gold. Slowly she drew it out and laid it among the ruffles on her blouse.

But there was no reaction. The old woman did not reappear. The old man showed only briefly, dropping a fat white envelope on the table, then departing abruptly in his three wheeled truck.

Theresa ran outside when she heard the truck sputter to life, but she was too late, it was chugging down the road. Chauncey, the big black dog, seemed to be the only live thing still there.

CHAPTER 6 - The Bus

She sat at the table and stared at the short typed letter.

"Theresa, I know that you have traveled alone before, so hopefully this will not be too hard. Do exactly as instructed. Your life and others depend on it. At the other end of your journey someone will meet you. Be brave. There is a train ticket and air tickets, directions to the train station, and a passport in the name of Sally Jones, parents Michael and Carol Jones, with your picture in it, in case you should need it. Remember you are Sally Jones should anyone ask, but they probably won't. The birthdate is right, 10-21-82."

As an afterthought, someone had added by hand "Chauncey will show you the way to the road. Burn this in the stove before you leave. Go now."

Wonderful, she thought. Now I am to follow a dog again! But there seemed nothing else to do. "Well Chauncey," she said "Let's hit the road."

To her surprise, Chauncey let her through a small stand of trees on a well-worn path and came out at a nicely paved road. On the opposite slope there were a fair number of houses and more of the big brown cows with the bells. A short distance downhill was a bus stop, and Chauncey hurried her along. A bus approached.

The envelope had contained several flavors of money (Swiss, Italian and French), so, as instructed, she handed a bill to the driver. "Chur please," she said. The driver was maybe 50, and she would not have paid him much attention except for the eyes. The same electric blue eyes as the old man. Were they related? Something about those blue eyes stirred in her memory. He had a scar on his left arm, casually draped over the steering wheel as he accepted her money.

She found an empty seat - most of the seats were empty. As they pulled away she remembered Chauncey. He was already bounding back toward the forest, but at the edge of the trees he turned and looked back. Suddenly she felt very lonely. How could she be lonely for a strange black dog that smelled wet and was only occasionally friendly.

She thought about the driver. He seemed to have paid no special attention to her, in fact he seemed bored. So probably he had nothing to do with the old man. Maybe the electric blue eyes were just a genetic characteristic of these parts. And he had not reacted to her opal either. She had purposely left it out where he could see it.

It would be a long ride to Chur. She knew a little about Swiss geography. She had made it a point to study European maps in the school library when she had thought about running away. That was often, but she had never figured out where to go. Chur was a major rail head, that much she knew. Well, now someone was telling her where to go and giving her tickets to get there.

Maybe she should cash the tickets in and go her own way. Maybe she could get back to the cabin in Colorado. It was probably lonely and unoccupied up there among the peaks. She could be a reasonably content hermit, she thought. But even she knew that these tickets wouldn't cash in for enough to buy a ticket back to the States, and besides, she didn't know where the cabin in Colorado was. She had only been eight when Uncle Selmon died and the helicopter came. Until then she had seen cities only on video. At least that she could remember.

She liked the Alps, they were pretty. But she had never had the freedom here, or in Idaho for that matter, that she had had in Colorado. The school took them on field trips fairly often, and her class had gone skiing once for three days in Zermatt. She had been to Zurich and Geneva, and once on the train to London. It was an expensive school and most of the kids were from rich families. She supposed she must be too, but she never got the fat allowances that the other kids got. She felt like an outsider. She made up crazy stories about her past to disguise the fact that she really didn't know who she was. Nobody seemed to think much about them, some of their true stories were just as bizarre.

Well, she would just play along for now. Chur seemed as good a place as any to go, and if she didn't go there they would probably send a dog after her again.

At Chur, the bus pulled up to the train station, it was the last stop on the line apparently. The driver paid her no attention as she left.

Chapter 7 -- The Train

Theresa had little trouble finding the train her tickets were for, it seemed she was crossing the Alps to Lugano. She had to change once. Maybe that's what the Italian money was for. Lugano was near the border with Italy. She was glad now that she had memorized all the maps when she was plotting her futile escapes in the library. There were no tickets to Italy though. The only other ticket was an airplane ticket to Paris, France. It was on Crossair, an airline she had never heard of.

She found an empty compartment, and settled in with a science fiction book she had bought at the train station and a very large chocolate bar. Dark chocolate, "Chocolate noir", with hazelnuts. It was her favorite indulgence when she was feeling sorry for herself. It had taken all of the Swiss money she had left to get it, and she wondered if that was very smart. Oh well, none of this was probably very smart. She should probably just scream for the police. But something kept her from doing that. The same something that always haunted her.

It was raining now, a slight sleety rain that messed the windows. And then she remembered the electric blue eyes! The blue eyes! The men in the helicopter! A shudder ran through her. They had been kind, of course. They had tried to comfort her as best as grown men knew how. But they marked the end of her life with Uncle Selmon, and the start of her not knowing who she was. And they had those same eyes, the same eyes as the old man and the driver on the bus.

The memories flooded back. They were always there of course, but as she got older she visited them less often. She had been eight years old. As long as she could remember, well - almost as long as she could remember. There were earlier memories but they were fuzzy. The early memories involved a woman. Heat. Warm soft water. Sitting between someone's legs and playing with soft sand. Bright birds. Colored fish. She had finally decided that her early memories must have something to do with the tropics. Sometimes she could almost put a face on the woman, but mostly she couldn't. Anyway, Uncle Selmon had told her it was not her mother she remembered. When she asked who it was he would always just say "It's someone who loves you."

He never said "Someone who loved you." It was always "Someone who loves you." So Theresa believed that the woman must still be alive. At least she was alive when Uncle Selmon was alive. But she had never asked him. She was afraid of the answer.

As far as she could tell, she had come to Uncle Selmon's when she was about four, or maybe a little younger. She didn't remember how she got there, only that he held her and rocked her for long hours under the stars. The cabin was somewhere high in the Rockies, and there were no roads to it, nor any trails either. She had grown to love it there, and to love Uncle Selmon. It was, she knew now, a very strange childhood. But back then she didn't know it was strange. Uncle Selmon took her often into the woods, and taught her the ways of the forest animals and the forest trees. He taught her to read the nearby peaks, so she could always find her way back to the cabin. And he set her free.

Uncle Selmon would go off for supplies once every month or so, except in deep winter, but he never took her with him. Toward the end, she often begged to go, but his indulgence never extended that far. They had a couple of llamas which he used as pack animals, and they were her friends and playmates. She was not unaware of the outside world though. There was a large satellite dish well-hidden behind the cabin, and she watched Sesame Street like everyone else. Uncle Selmon was a strict tutor also, and there had been a computer ever since she could remember, with lots of programs which she was required to master. She was well ahead of the other kids when she got to the school in Idaho. In fact the schoolwork was pretty boring for awhile.

Uncle Selmon was somewhat crippled, and ancient by an eight-year-old's standards. She supposed now that he had been about 60. He spent his time whittling and reading and just gazing at the mountains, but he always had time for her. Except during "Satellite Time", when he would put on his headphones, listen intently, and fiddle with dials on his big gray box. He never said anything, and usually didn't do anything either. Very occasionally he would tap a button marked "SEND" in an odd sort of Morse code way. Now she thought he had probably been sending a pre-recorded message in bursts. Sometimes afterwards he would shut down the gray box, take the disk over to his computer and read whatever it was that came in. She had tried to look over his shoulder but everything was in some sort of code or foreign language, she couldn't tell which, and the message was never very long. Once though, he had showed her the end of it. It was in English and said "Tell Theresa we love her."

She thought that if someone up in the sky really loved her they should very well come down here and see her. She would make do with Uncle Selmon. The rest of them could just fizzle into deep space for all she cared. He looked sad when she told him this.

From the time she was five, Uncle Selmon had taught her the "Drill". They practiced it once a week at first, later once a month. It had seemed so much a part of her life at the end that she paid little attention to it. She thought it was just an old man's idiocy. But she played along because she loved Uncle Selmon.

Then, all of a sudden, it happened. She was eight. She found him outside, barely breathing, lying across a damp moss-covered patch of rock with one of the llamas standing over him. "I'm going for help," she screamed. But he grabbed her wrist, hard. "No!" he said. "It's all right. Remember the box." Frantic, she tried to pull free. She would take the llama. The llama would know the way to some town. But then he made a rattling noise, the grip on her wrist loosened, and he was still. She was enough a child of the forest to know that he was dead.

For a long time she just sat there, quivering. Then she went into the cabin, got some pillows and blankets and tried to make him comfortable. Wrapped in a blanket herself, she watched the full moon come up and glint on the snow that was already on the nearest peaks. It was time for the "Drill".

By the moonlight she made her way to a nearby cave and retrieved the box they had practiced with so often. She got Uncle Selmon's watch which he kept by his computer, and always wound faithfully every morning. It was a big watch, with a picture of a train on it.

The box was a simple thing, with a big purple button. Per the drill, she waited till midnight, then pressed the button, counted to five, released it. She was to do that every night at midnight till help came. She wondered if it would come.

She got Uncle Selmon's shotgun and sat in the doorway of the cabin, waiting.

At dawn the men with the electric blue eyes arrived. By helicopter. One of them gathered her up and hugged her. The other buried Uncle Selmon. Her eyes were swimming with held-back tears and she really didn't look at them very well. But she remembered the eyes, and the way they looked at each other. Extreme sadness.

The helicopter ride was short and loud. She was too numb to look down. One of them asked if she remembered Granmarie. "No, is she my mother?" "No," There was no further explanation. When she asked a question it was met with "It's best you do not know," She didn't try again.

At a small airport she was transferred to a blue car, driven by a woman named "Barbara". They drove in silence for a long while, north. Finally Barbara began to talk.

"Theresa, I cannot tell you much about your family. It is dangerous for you to know too much."

"Are my parents dead?"

"Yes, I believe they are dead."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to a school in Northern Idaho, up near Canada. It is time that you were with other children. Have you been very lonely?"

"No, I don't think so. I miss Uncle Selmon though."

"Do you remember a lovely lady you lived with on the beach?"

"I think so, but not very well. I wish I had a picture of her."

"Unfortunately, pictures are one thing your family has few of."

"Was she my mother?"

"No, I believe she may have been your grandmother - or an aunt"

Theresa had the feeling that this woman Barbara was not telling her all the truth, but she didn't feel up to doing anything about it. She was still numb from Uncle Selmon's death.

"Theresa, if the kids at the school, or anyone else for that matter, ask you about your family, you must tell them that your parents are dead. Also that you grandparents are dead. Your guardian is your Uncle Selmon. "

"But he's dead."

"Yes, I know. But we'll pretend he is not. You know him well and can describe him well. Pretend that he was really your uncle."

"I thought he was my uncle."

"Oh - well, maybe he was."

There was a long pause. Then Barbara continued "Anyway - let's pretend that he is still alive. You lived with him in Colorado. In the mountains. It is best not to tell people that you never went to town and stuff like that. People would be suspicious. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Now he has had to go to Europe on business - he travels a lot. And he has sent you to this school to get a good education. You will get letters from him from time to time"

"Letters from Uncle Selmon? Dead Uncle Selmon?"

"Yes. They will be from someone else but they will be signed Uncle Selmon."

"Who will they be from?"

"It is better that you not know that now - but it is someone who loves you. You will have an address and you can write to him sometimes - but you must only write what you are doing in school, and you must not ask any questions that would arouse suspicions. Probably they will read your mail."

"Who?"

"I don't know, Theresa." Barbara began to sound exasperated but was trying to be calm. "Look, I hate all this. But I know that it is important for your safety, and for a lot of other people's safety. Do you think you can do this? If you can't, you must tell me now, and I will stop the car."

"Are you going to throw me out on the roadside?"

"No, of course not, sweetheart. I'm just so tired. I'm sorry. I don't want to scare you. If you can't handle this school thing just tell me. They'll think of something else."

"I'll be all right."

"Lots of people love you, you know."

"No, I don't know."

Theresa was quiet then, and so was Barbara. That was how she had arrived at the school in Idaho. They thought she was shy and withdrawn but it was because she was afraid to talk about almost anything for fear of giving something away. And she didn't even know what she would be giving away. Besides she had never been around other kids.

It was a rich man's school and a lot of the kids were spoiled brats. But she did well in scholastics and sports and finally was reasonably well liked, although she never made any close friends.

True to Barbara's word, she received letters from Uncle Selmon. He also sent her picture books and adventure books from around the world, which she devoured avidly, actually looking for some clues to her background. One card said "Study these well - they may serve you in times to come." The letters were always typed, even the signature line that always said "Love, Uncle Selmon." Sometimes they came into the school as a fax, with no return address, which she didn't like, although the letters never said anything very personal. But sometimes they came with exotic stamps from countries she had to look up in the Atlas - like Bangladesh.

Chapter 8 - The Plane

The train ride to Lugano had been uneventful, except for her uneasy musings. The Alps were spectacular, but Theresa was used to them by now. The tunnel had been long and dark. And now they had arrived in Lugano. She panicked for a moment, when she realized that she had spent all her Swiss money on chocolates and books, and needed to get to the airport, but she figured out how to change the Italian money to Swiss and had enough for the bus to the airport. There was some left over, which she decided she better not spend. Who knows when a dog or something would show up and take her through the woods to Italy! It was much warmer here on the Southern side of the Alps. There were even a few palm trees.

There was an airline called Crossair and her ticket as Sally Jones seemed to be acceptable. Maybe she wasn't going to Italy after all. Maybe that was just a contingency plan. That was a big word she had just learned. Contingency - something to do in case the first thing didn't work out. She wondered if she were a contingency - for someone or something.

The plane was pretty full, but she had a window seat, and was hoping that no one would sit next to her. She much preferred to be alone. But someone did. She buried her head in her book and did not look at him until the Stewardess came by and reminded her of her seatbelt. "Stupid," she said to herself. "You act like you've never been on an airplane."

That's when she looked at her seat mate, looked away, then looked sideways again. He was a kid, not much older than her, well, maybe a few years older. Maybe 15. And he was a God! Soft clear skin, light tan, with no pimples. Soft wavy very light brown hair with golden lights. It almost matched his skin and curled around his ears. Huge water blue eyes with a dark ring around the iris and lashes that seemed inches long! His features were all rather generous. And his lips - they would be thought voluptuous if on a girl!

"Hi," he said, in slightly accented English. "My name is Kahlil."

"Theresa," she mumbled. And she wondered how long it took to get to Paris. Not long enough she thought.

There was no more conversation till after takeoff. The stewardess came by again, asking for drink orders. She was pretty, with long swinging blond hair. It made Theresa think about her own missing hair again and she involuntarily ran her hand through the stubby curls. They were probably a mess. She didn't even have a comb.

Kahlil seemed to want to talk. Maybe he was nervous about flying. She asked him questions, to divert attention away from herself mostly. His English was pretty good, she could understand him, but it was obviously not his first language. He lived in Paris now he said (she told him she was going to visit her grandmother). When she asked where he was from he laughed.

"My Mother was Algerian," he said. "But she is dead. My Father was Russian, I think, and I suppose he still lives."

He went on. "I live with an Uncle in Paris. I lived in Algeria till I was ten, but since I don't look like an Arab, life was and would be difficult for me there. I don't speak Russian really, only schoolbook Russian, so I wouldn't feel at home there, even if I were able to go. I speak French fluently and have had most of my schooling in French, but I am not a French citizen so I don't know how long I shall be able to stay there. I'm sort of a man without a country. Or I will be when I'm no longer classed as a child or a student."

He was smiling but Theresa thought she detected a touch of bitterness, and perhaps fear.

They ate their airplane sandwich in silence. She noticed that he had some sort of deformity in his left ring finger - like a joint was missing or something. Otherwise she rated him a perfect physical specimen. Of course, that was just on the scale her giddy school friends used. Theresa professed still to have no interest in boys. But this was just academic. He would be out of her life in a few minutes as soon as they landed in Paris.

"Have you been to Paris before?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Well, if you're going to be there awhile, come see me at the bird market. It's every Sunday morning on the Ile de la Cite. It's pretty and fun and I think you'd like it. I go there every week."

"What do you do at a bird market?" she asked.

"Oh, mostly just look at the birds. They're my hobby. I raise a few in the apartment and sometimes I sell a pair. Usually I buy some food for them. You can buy it anywhere but it's more fun to go to the market. I usually go about ten and then if the weather is nice take a walk along the quai or eat croissants in the Square du Vert-Galant. That's a park in the middle of the river. You can watch all the boats. Actually the pigeons get most of my croissants."

"Maybe I will," she said, knowing full well that was probably totally impossible. Tomorrow she would probably be in Antarctica or someplace.

The "fasten your seat belts for landing" spiel came on, and Theresa sighed. Here was a possible friend, someone she thought she could actually like, for practically the first time in her life, and she would never see him again.

The stewardess with the long blond hair came by to check her seat belt again - she remembered it this time, and soon they were on the ground.

Kahlil turned a wonderful smile toward her as he reached easily into the overhead for his backpack. "Hope I see you at the bird market," he said. And was gone.

Theresa waited till most of the plane was empty. She didn't have any luggage and she didn't know what she was supposed to do next anyway. Maybe another dog would meet her.

Chapter 9 - The Airport

Theresa stood in the busy terminal, with another envelope in her hand. This one was small and yellow instead of white. Another envelope! She felt like she was playing some sort of game. It was like an international treasure hunt and she was the treasure.

The stewardess with the long blond hair that she had envied had rushed up to her at the last minute. "You forgot this I think," she said.

You forgot this! How absurd. But she took it anyway, and now she was off the plane and the stewardess was nowhere in sight. Probably one of the "Blue Eyes" had given it to her. Theresa had looked carefully at the stewardess and she definitely did not have those blue eyes. They were blue, but only a normal blue.

By now, Theresa had decided that the "Blue Eyes" were some sort of clan and they were either after her or protecting her. For awhile she thought maybe they were her family, but her own eyes were not blue, they were a luminous green, fairly large, with a slightly unusual shape she thought. They were one of her best features, after her hair, which was now gone. She had nice lashes too, though not as nice as Kahlil's.

There being nowhere else to go, Theresa stepped onto a moving sidewalk, which, to her surprise, went up and down hill. This seemed rather silly to her. She was glad she had no luggage. An older lady with one of those wheeled carryons was about to be run over by her own suitcase. Theresa helped her and the woman thanked her profusely in French, which Theresa did not understand. She knew a few words from school, and from Uncle Selmon's computer programs, but she knew how to read them, not how to listen to them. She did understand "Merci" though. She at least knew that meant "Thanks".

She looked for a quiet corner where she could open this new envelope. It occurred to her that she had five hundred French francs, which she had figured out was almost $100, and perhaps she could run. But she still had no place to run to - unless it was the bird market, and that was of course silly.

The airport was pretty crowded. Some of the people were coming in from other countries and had to go through customs. She was glad that was no longer necessary between countries in the common market. She was a little nervous about being Sally Jones. She wondered if someone was watching her. Probably. She looked around but didn't see anyone suspicious, nor anyone with electric blue eyes.

Just to be on the safe side she decided to go in the women's room. She opened the envelope sitting on the toilet.

Inside was a gray plastic folder with a bright orange card with her picture on it and the name Sally Jones. It appeared to be some sort of official pass. There was also an orange subway ticket in a separate pocket, and a subway map. And another note.

"You did good kid!" it said. "Not too much farther to go. We all love you!"

A separate paper had fairly detailed printed directions on how to use the pass, and a rough hand drawn map to an apartment on Rue du Dome. At the bottom someone had added "6A39" in green ink.

Theresa wadded up the note that said they loved her and threw it in the toilet. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. The other paper she stuffed in her jeans pocket. Then she walked out.

And there was "Blue Eyes"!

Chapter 10 - The Subway

Finally Theresa was on the subway - or the train or whatever it was. It wasn't underground at the moment. She had ditched "Blue Eyes". Why did she do that? Why didn't she just go up to him and demand to know what he was doing following her? Maybe he was her protector. But if so why did he look through her so.

"Face it," she said to herself. "You're half afraid of them. You're whole afraid of them."

Maybe they killed Uncle Selmon, she thought. But that was absurd. Uncle Selmon had died of a heart attack. Hadn't he? She was probably imagining all this.

She looked carefully around. Actually "Blue Eyes" hadn't been very hard to ditch. And that worried her. Fortunately she had ridden on the subways of London so this one wasn't so unfamiliar. She had been a little unsure of how to use her pass, but stood and watched other people with orange passes too and soon figured out to put the ticket in the slot, go through, and pluck it from the machine at the other end. Whoever wrote the note had been pretty emphatic about not losing her ticket or forgetting it in the machine. She wondered if they were watching.

The RER train, which finally did stay underground and become a subway, rattled along rather smoothly. She watched the station names flash past, sometimes the train stopped, sometimes it didn't. Fortunately the station names were written in large letters all over the platform and she watched as they flashed by - Villepinte, Drancy, La Plaine. It all sounded so exotic. Finally she deduced that there was a map over the door, sort of like one that might be drawn by a computer, listing the stations, so she could tell where she was and have some forewarning of when the Chatelet-Les Halles station was coming up, so she would know to get off.

The Chatelet Station was huge, and very busy, but her directions were very clear. Take A5 to Poissy (not A2 to Boissy) and get off at Ch. de Gaulle Etoille, the second stop. It wasn't hard to find the train and she didn't have to walk far to the platform. She had been worried about that. Some of the stations in London had been very confusing. The second train was crowded and she had to stand. She looked carefully for "Blue Eyes", but he was nowhere to be seen, at least not on this car. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to think someone was watching over her or not. Maybe not. Yes, that was better, especially if she couldn't know who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. Were there good guys?

The Charles de Gaulle station was big too, with lots of escalators. She found her way to the exit, finally, and figured out that she had to feed her orange ticket to a machine in order to get out. She had been on the verge of jumping over the gate (she saw someone else do this), and then she almost forgot to retrieve her ticket afterwards. A kindly lady had grabbed her sleeve, babbled motherly French, and pointed at the ticket waiting to be plucked from the exit turnstile.

Still she was not out. Exit signs pointed down some yellowish tunnels that smelled of pee. A sad looking man played a harmonica, squatted on a dirty towel, accompanied by a spotted black cat, a saucer for milk, and another saucer for coins. Finally Theresa found a passage to the fresh air. Her nose was burning, she wasn't used to anything other than mountain air, and this was disgusting!

Mounting the last steps, she turned around, and looked directly into the largest arch she had ever seen. From books she knew it was the Arc de Triomphe, but she had not expected it to be so big, or so close. It looked like it had hair on top, but on closer inspection she could see that there were people up there, and some sort of spiked fence. And ten million cars honked their screeching way around it.

Well, this was no time to be sightseeing. She pulled out the crumpled map and set out to find the apartment. The circular streets were confusing.

Chapter 11 -- The Apartment

Finally! Theresa hesitated in front of the apartment on Rue du Dome. It seemed that she had crossed a zillion intersections to get here. And she was still close to the Arc. But on the other side, she thought. It was a very old building, the lower part gray stone, the upper part some sort of stucco. There was a heavy stone carving hanging over the door at a slightly downward angle with the building number on it. How long had it been there she wondered? More to the point, would it fall on her head. It didn't look very stable. The only remotely modern thing about this building was the electronic keypad by the door. She had passed many others, and she correctly figured out that the green code "6A39" was meant to let her in. Well, this was the city. There were bars on some of the windows too.

Inside, the hallway was narrow and dark and smelled of dank and dogshit. All the doors were closed except one at the end which led to a tiny square patio occupied by two trash bins. Theresa stuck her head into the patio and looked up at least five floors. It was like being in the bottom of a dirty yellow well. Windows were on all sides, on each floor, but most had bars and almost all had the curtains drawn. Way up at the top someone had wired a red geranium to one of the bars.

She heard a cat mew. Well, at least something was alive in here. Otherwise it was so quiet.

The address said apartment 4B, and a narrow spiral staircase wound upward at the rear. It had once had carpet, but it had been removed, and only the outer edges of the steps were finished with stain. The grimy raw wood in the middle, which had been under the carpet, was marred on the first few steps by some brown guck, which Theresa strongly suspected was dog guck, and she stepped gingerly around. The streets had been full of it. Paris people must not have to use pooper-scoopers like London people. In London there had been signs all over warning of fines for "Fouling the Footpath", which meant letting your dog shit on the sidewalk.

On the fourth floor all the apartments were numbered 3 something, and Theresa belatedly remembered that the Europeans didn't count the ground floor as a floor. She finally located 4B on the fifth floor, and also finally noticed the light switches on each landing. It was not quite as dark with the light on, but she could still just barely read the apartment numbers in the dimness. Most of the apartments were only numbered by means of small business cards taped to the doors.

The door for apartment 4B was just like all the others, peeling paint, aging yellow, big keyhole in old old door. Theresa stood there for a full minute, afraid to knock. Finally she tapped hesitantly on the door. A cat mewed. Nobody came.

She didn't know what to do. Was she supposed to curl up in a corner and wait? What if somebody came. There were five other apartments on this floor, or at least she thought so. One of the doors had no number on it. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. Panicked, she tried the door and it opened.

The footsteps stopped on the floor below. Some tenant must have come in. Quickly Theresa shut the door behind her and backed against it.

She was in a small foyer of sorts. It was not so bad really. It was old but had been painted, she could smell the paint.. A black and white cat sat in the barred open window by the door. It was young with very long whiskers, and one of the errant red geraniums rested on its head.

There was a small, very small, kitchen to the right, with another window. And directly in front of her, as she stood with her back to the door, was a toilet! Just the toilet in a closet sized room, no sink or anything. The door was open and it was one of those funny toilets that had a knob on top that you pulled. The first time she had encountered one of those she had been embarrassed because she had to ask someone how to flush. Well, at least she knew how to do that now. Sometimes you pulled, sometimes you pushed, but she no longer looked for a handle.

Theresa closed the toilet door and ventured into the next room. It was small too, and dominated by a huge piece of furniture that stood way taller than her. It had 2 doors and was heavily carved. It was much too big for the room. There was a single bed that apparently served as a couch, a table and two chairs, a small TV, and not much else. A small bookcase in the corner. Sheer white curtains stirred at the only window. There was one door which was locked, and a cluttered hallway of sorts leading to a tiny bedroom and a small bathroom. The bath was normal except that it had no toilet and the tub was doll size.

She sat and waited. And wondered what she should do. From time to time she looked out the windows. The apartment was on the corner, and she could watch both streets by switching between the bedroom and sitting room. From so high up she could see quite a ways, but she was careful to stay behind the curtains and not lean out. She wondered what she could be looking for - maybe the man with the "Blue Eyes". But she saw nothing.

Darkness fell and Theresa was getting hungry. She had been so enchanted with Kahlil's story, that she hadn't eaten much on the plane, and it was a long time since she had spent her last Swiss francs on chocolate.

Probably there was food in the kitchen. But she was too stubborn to go look. They, whoever "they" were, had sent her here, and she would just die on the couch if no one came for her. "Stop being so silly," she told herself. "You wouldn't do that, you'd leave here and try to find help. There's always the police." She looked at the phone and wondered if they had 911 in France. But she didn't do anything. She didn't look in the kitchen for food. She didn't pick up the phone. She didn't turn on the TV. She just sat on the couch-bed in the dark, knees pulled up under her chin.

Chapter 12 -- Salandra

She must have been asleep. The sudden light blinded her and she raised the pillow she had been clutching to shield her eyes. Then slowly the swimming image came into focus - long swinging honey blond hair, blue eyes (but not electric blue!) and a very wide smile with sort of wide teeth. But a friendly smile though, and not at all unattractive. The first emotion that crossed Theresa's consciousness was gloom at the loss her own hair, only an inch long now, and angry tears tried to form.

The blond lady looked alarmed.

"Don't be afraid," she pleaded. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I shouldn't have turned on the lights so abruptly."

"Who are you?" was the only thing Theresa could think of to say.

"Well, that's a fair question. I was on the airplane. Do you remember?"

Of course, Theresa thought. The stewardess!

"So you're a flying waitress," Theresa said. "That doesn't say much about who you are."

"That's about right," the lady laughed. "My name's Salandra, and you're going to be staying with me for a few days. Or maybe more than a few days."

"Won't you have to fly off somewhere all the time?"

"Well, no, not all the time. In fact I have four days off right now. And I can have more if we need it."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"No, not completely anyway."

"Then I'm not going to stay here!"

Salandra smiled a little sadly. "Look Theresa, I can't tell you everything. It's dangerous."

"I'm not a child. Strange people, even strange Dogs, have been dragging me all over Europe. I've been drugged and abandoned in a forest, frozen and half-starved, nobody will talk to me and then they follow me, and then I almost got lost trying to find this street with a weird name where none of the streets go straight, and the hallways stink, and the toilet is by the front door, and it's dark outside, and I want to go home, only I don't know where home is. I don't have any home. I can't even run away from one." Theresa was almost sobbing now and trying desperately not to. She jumped up and turned toward the window to keep Salandra from seeing any tears.

Absently she fingered the flimsy white curtains. And then she saw him - "Blue Eyes" from the airport, standing in the street looking up at her. She jumped back, stifled a scream.

Salandra was behind her. She gestured to the man, maybe, Theresa wasn't sure.