I rose early the next morning so that I might waylay Michael on his way to breakfast. Steering him away from the dining room, I instead took him out into the rear courtyard. The place looked like a hurricane had swept through. The fires had burnt themselves out by now, leaving a charred skeleton of a barn and a heavy pall of smoke. Broken buckets, sodden blankets and various other items of debris lay scattered all around and the ground was criss-crossed with muddy footprints. I paused just a moment to admire the full extent of the devastation left in Juarez’s wake, before heading for the stable block.

     “What are you doing?” Michael asked, following me reluctantly through the door. “I’m not sure this is a good place to get caught after all the trouble of last night. Someone might start asking awkward questions.”

     “Relax,” I casually replied. “Who’s going to catch us? There’s nobody around.”

     It was true. The stable block, just like the rest of the courtyard, was entirely empty of both human and equine inhabitants. With the prisoner escaped, there was nothing left to guard and all the guardsmen had either galloped or marched off at dawn, ostensibly in search of the missing bandits but really, I suspected, with the simple object of putting as much distance between themselves and the effects of Don Pedro’s temper as possible. As we walked slowly down the central aisle of the stables the only sound to be heard was the crunching underfoot of the oats that had been spilled all across the floor last night.

     “What are you looking for?” asked Michael.

     “I’m not sure I am,” I replied thoughtfully. “Looking, that is.” I stopped by the stall that had previously held One-Eyed Alfonso, glancing uncertainly around. “I just wanted to get the feel of the place again. You see, it’s just… Well, I think there was something going on here last night.”

     “You don’t say,” retorted Michael, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. “What kind of something might you be referring to? The break-in by Juarez? The scrap with the provincial guard? The daring escape by the bandits?”

     “No, I’m not talking about all that,” I said, giving him a look. “I mean something else. Something in the background. Something that was kind of there, but not there… if you know what I mean.”

     “No, I can’t say that I do,” Michael responded with a look of his own.

     “But you must have felt it,” I urged. “It was a kind of presence, an atmosphere, an… oh, I don’t know.” I threw up my hands in exasperation. “It was something like…”

     Something like the awareness of an intangible entity lurking somewhere just above and beyond the realms of human perception?

     The words seemed to suddenly appear from nowhere, filling up the space all around us and causing both Michael and I to jump right out of our skins.

     You sensed my presence in the building last night, observing all the action without physically engaging in any way, and thought you would return this morning to see if you could make contact with me. At least, that’s the explanation I suppose you are trying to flounder your way towards in your inimitable, incoherent fashion.

     “Bob! So, it is you!” I exclaimed in triumph. “I knew you were here.”

     You shouldn’t have done. I do not technically belong on the same plane of existence as you and it was not my intention to make contact last night. But I suppose, given our shared history, you have developed a peculiar susceptibility to the slightest hint of my presence.

     And please, don’t call me Bob.

     “What should we call you?” I asked.

     You shouldn’t call me anything. I am not a character in the drama, I have no need of a name. If it becomes absolutely necessary, I suppose you might refer to me as ‘The Narrator’. But it would be far better if you were to refrain from addressing me directly altogether.

     “Aww, come on. After all we’ve been through together, you can’t expect us not to even say hello,” I protested. “Besides, I think Bob rather suits you.”

     Michael stepped in to fill the rather frosty silence which followed by cheerfully remarking, “Well, fancy bumping into you again! How long has it been? We haven’t seen you since…”

     Given that I have no corporeal form, you have technically never seen me. But if you are referring to our last encounter, that took place in the woods just behind the barracks of the Explorer’s Club, just after the incident with the exploding zeppelin.

     “Of course it did!” noted Michael cheerily. “That was all good fun, wasn’t it?”

     Since then, I have corresponded with you on two separate occasions. You did receive my letters, did you not?

     “Yeah, sure, we got them,” I lightly replied, hoping that the sudden frostiness in the air was not an indication that he was miffed that we hadn’t replied. I have to confess that it never occurred to me that he might have been expecting a response. How exactly were you supposed to go about addressing mail to a non-material being of no fixed abode anyway?

     “It was lovely to hear from you but what exactly are you doing here?” asked Michael, effecting a smooth change of subject. “Have you been following us?”

     “You’re not trying to muscle in on our story again, are you Bob?” I added with a raised eyebrow.

     Certainly not. I am quite busy with a story of my own. I believe I did mention in my correspondence that I have embarked upon a new narrative.

     “Oh, yeah, some big saga thing, wasn’t it?” I recalled.

     I think it might fairly be said that there is a certain epic quality to this particular tale. It’s essentially the story of two American families – one from the east coast and one from the west – charting their progress throughout the course of the twentieth century.

     “That sounds like quite an undertaking,” noted Michael.

     I was ready for a fresh challenge. To tell the truth, I had always rather shied away from the United States of America as a setting before. It has always seemed to me both too vast and too fragmented to form the basis of any kind of coherent narrative. But when I came across this story, I had something of an epiphany. It occurred to me that those classic American traits which at first seem so trite and off-putting – the unabashed adoration of wealth, the primitive addiction to violence, the perpetually adolescent attitude towards sex – could, when properly explored, actually be fashioned into something quite profound.

     The focus on my two families, the Fitzgeralds of New York and the Vargas of San Francisco, and the way their lives echo, contrast and overlap throughout the 1900s, provides a perfect framework for linking the intimate to the epic.

     “It sounds very compelling,” Michael politely observed.

     “Very Barbara Taylor Bradford,” I suggested. “Maybe we should start calling you Babs instead of Bob. What do you think? Babs or Bob? Bob or Babs? Which would you prefer?”

     Neither. I have already told you; I have no need of a name. And I fail to see any parallels between my story and those of Ms Taylor Bradford.

     “Hey, I hope you’re not dissing Barbara Taylor Bradford,” I complained. “A Woman of Substance is a stone-cold classic.”

     “Interesting as all this is, it doesn’t quite explain what you are doing hanging around these stables,” interjected Michael, executing another timely change of subject. “If your story takes place in the twentieth century then aren’t you nearly a hundred years out of date in showing up here?”

     The events occurring here are not part of my core story but they do provide a key background element. The tale of the bandit/folk hero Juarez and his struggle against the villainous Governor Don Pedro is one that is told to Ramon Varga, the patriarch of the Varga clan, by his beloved grandmother when he is a child.

     “So, you came all the way out here to see events unfold for yourself?” I noted. “Blimey, that’s dedication to the cause.”

     It is precisely that kind of dedication that distinguishes the true epic from mere trashy pulp. The stories that Ramon Varga hears at his grandmother’s fireside play a key part in the formation of his character. It was essential for me to see that the narrative played out exactly as it ought to.

     I suddenly felt that same inexplicable touch of frost in the atmosphere. With some trepidation, I felt obliged to check, “And did it?”

     Everything went perfectly… Until you two showed up.

     “Ah. I don’t suppose you were expecting us, were you?” said Michael with an embarrassed laugh.

     No. I was not.

     “I hope we didn’t cause you too much bother?” I tentatively offered.

     What do you think? Tell me, what would you make of a story where two unheralded, entirely anachronistic characters of uncertain provenance are suddenly dropped into the mix entirely out of the blue?

     “Oh,” said Michael. “I suppose we must have been a bit awkward for you.”

     Awkward? You’ve entirely ruined my story!

     “Aww, be fair. I think that’s a bit strong,” I protested. “I’ll agree we might be a bit out of place but ultimately you should be thanking us. After all, if it wasn’t for our intervention Juarez might very well have been caught last night.”

     Juarez was supposed to be caught last night!

     “Seriously?”

     It’s the whole point of the story. Juarez is the hero who brings temporary hope to the people but who is ultimately crushed by the ruthless forces of oppression. Abuela Varga’s story is meant to conclude with the brutal execution of Juarez in the Plaza at noon tomorrow.

     There was an awkward pause.

     “That doesn’t sound like a very nice tale to be telling your grandkids,” I eventually muttered.

     Not nice, no, but relevant, if you happen to be poor and oppressed and concerned with warning your grandchildren all about the wicked ways of the world. More importantly, it is a key element in the formation of Ramon Varga’s character. The tales he hears at his grandmother’s fireside will imbue him with the understanding that to be poor is to be forever at the mercy of the rich and powerful. They will fuel him with an unquenchable desire to acquire wealth of his own, a desire that will spur him to great things but will also poison every relationship he ever has.

     “Oh.”

     Except now, thanks to your intervention, none of that will happen. Now, the lesson that Ramon Varga is likely to take from his grandmother’s fireside is that there is always a chance that the rich and powerful may be thwarted by the lucky intervention of a couple of improbable strangers. Instead of bitter and driven, he will probably grow up naïve and idealistic.

     “Well, is it really such a bad thing to be naïve and idealistic?” asked Michael after a moment’s contemplation. “Who knows? He might be much happier that way.”

     I don’t want him to be happy – happy people do not make interesting protagonists. As it stands, my whole carefully-constructed story lies in ruins!

     “I’m very sorry,” said Michael quietly. “But we weren’t to know.”

     “Couldn’t you find a different story for Grandma Varga to tell?” I suggested. “You’ve got the whole landscape of the imagination to choose from. There must be hundreds of plucky underdogs out there just waiting to be crushed underfoot by ruthless villainy.”

     Fewer than you might think. More importantly, this tale is personal to Abuela Varga. She is born in Santa Marta and will be there in the Plaza today, clutching her father’s hand tightly as she watches her hero mount the scaffold. She will never forget the look on Juarez’s face when he discovers the nature of the betrayal that has brought him there…

     “Excuse me?” I interrupted with a frown. “Did you say betrayal?”

     It’s that kind of personal recollection that gives a story resonance. You can’t get the same effect by simply plucking another tale, ready-made, off the peg.

     “What exactly do you mean by betrayal?” I demanded. “Are you trying to tell us that there is somebody in this tale who would sell out Juarez to Don Pedro?”

     Never you mind. That’s no concern of yours.

     I turned to Michael. “Who do you suppose it is?” I asked. “Who could possibly betray Juarez?”

     “Could it be somebody in the town?” Michael thoughtfully mused. “Or even someone from his gang perhaps?”

     You stay out of this, the pair of you.

     “Oh my god, I’ve got it!” I suddenly exclaimed. “It’s One-Eyed Alfonso! He’s the Judas in Juarez’s gang.”

     Michael regarded me doubtfully. “You really think so?”

     I’m warning you…

     “When we visited the stables in the afternoon, I spotted One-Eyed Alfonso throw a strange glance at the trapdoor in the floor,” I explained. “Don’t you see, he knew that’s where the Captain’s men would be waiting to spring their ambush. And last night he all but gave them the signal. He pointed Juarez to the axe, knowing that the sound it would make as it hit the padlock would let the guards know when to rush out.”

     “I don’t know, it all seems a bit tenuous,” returned Michael uncertainly.

     “I’m telling you, it all adds up,” I insisted.

     “But One-Eyed Alfonso is Juarez’s most trusted lieutenant,” Michael pointed out. “Why should he betray his leader?”

     Now there he had me. “Because… Well, maybe for…” I floundered for a bit. “Oh, I don’t know!” I finally exclaimed with a wild shrug. “But I’m sure he has his reasons.”

     Of course he has his reasons! He’s growing old and tired and is losing faith in the cause. In the shadow of the gallows men often find that the will to survive outweighs any moral scruples.

     “There you are!” I declared in triumph. “I knew it was One-Eyed Alfonso!”

     You didn’t know why though, did you? Honestly, for people who have been involved in as many adventures as you have, you can both be very slow on the narrative uptake.

     Choosing to ignore this last remark, I kept my eyes fixed on Michael. “We should warn Juarez,” I told him. “He ought to know that One-Eyed Alfonso is not to be trusted.”

     Don’t you dare! You’ve interfered enough already.

     “Aww, c’mon,” I protested. “Don’t tell me you really want to see Don Pedro get the better of Juarez.”

     It’s not a question of what I want, it’s a question of what the story demands. I would be failing in my duty as a narrator if I allowed the course of the story to be deflected by extraneous elements. And they don’t come much more extraneous than you two! Narratively speaking, you simply do not belong in this sequence of events.

     “But we’re involved now, whether you like it or not,” Michael pointed out. “And now that we are involved, we can’t just turn our backs on people who might need our help. What would you expect us to do?”

     I expect you to concentrate on your own story before you go around picking apart anyone else’s. Because, from my viewpoint, I’m not seeing any great progress in the wrapping up of your own plotlines.

     “I think that’s a little unfair,” I retorted, somewhat stung by the accusation. “It’s hardly our fault that our search for the missing door last night was interrupted by the whole ‘bandit escape’ affair.”

     I’m not referring to the progress of this particular chapter of your narrative, I’m talking about the progress of your overall story, which I think might fairly be described, at best, as rambling and unfocused.

     My inclination to give full expression to my indignation at this criticism was somewhat tempered by an uncomfortable awareness that Bob did perhaps have a bit of a point on this score. “I think I prefer colourfully episodic to rambling and unfocused,” I somewhat weakly protested.

     “And that’s really dictated by the nature of the adventure we’ve been landed with,” Michael offered in addition. “Our progress is guided by the co-ordinates on the inter-dimensional travel drive. It’s not exactly our fault they’re all over the place. If you can think of a more direct way of tracking Sturridge down, I’d be glad to hear it.”

     Your methods for tracking Sturridge down are irrelevant, you must manage that element of your story as best you can. But what about when your story moves beyond the search for Sturridge, when your true objective comes into view? How are you preparing for that?

     Michael and I shared a rather puzzled glance.

     “But finding Sturridge is our true objective,” I retorted. Then added, after an uncertain pause, “Isn’t it?”

     Good grief, do I have to teach you ‘Narrative for Beginners’? I thought you were supposed to have some experience when it comes to story-telling. Do you really suppose that the powers that be would go to all the trouble of getting the two of you together and transporting you into the imaginary realm just to help out a fading writer whose mid-life crisis has gone trans-dimensional?

     “Well, I don’t know,” I somewhat uncomfortably retorted. “They might have done.”

     “We were never properly introduced to the powers that be,” added Michael defensively, “so you’ll forgive us if their principles and primary motives are not entirely clear to us.”

     The principles and primary motives of the powers that be aren’t entirely clear to anyone. They’re higher powers, being elusive and mysterious rather comes with the territory. But crossing from the real world into the imaginary landscape is not like hopping over the border of neighbouring countries. It’s not done either lightly or easily so when it is done you can usually trust that it’s done for a pretty big reason. The disappearance of Sturridge may have been the inciting incident to set you on your path but surely you will have realised by now that the climax to your tale will involve something a little more significant.

     There was a lengthy pause whilst both Michael and I silently chewed over the ramifications of Bob’s theory. “So, what you’re saying is that you think that at some point in our travels we’ll come across a bigger adventure that will overtake us in our search for Sturridge?” I tentatively theorised.

     What I’m saying is that I think you already have. Why do you suppose I sent you those letters? They were prompted by the very fear that while you were getting bogged down in the details of your search for Sturridge you were in danger of failing to prepare to meet your real challenge.

     There were more furrowed brows on the stable floor. “But what real challenge?” I demanded. “I’m pretty sure we’ve never come across any real challenge.”

“Those two letters were just letting us know what Valentine and Kenneth were up to,” commented Michael. “Aren’t they still busy searching for the original idea at the heart of the landscape?”

     There was another pause while the penny dropped a little further.

     “Wait a minute! Are you saying that the original idea at the heart of the landscape is our real challenge?” I said with a frown.

     Hallelujah! They get there at last!

     “But that’s no concern of ours,” I protested. “Finding the original idea at the heart of the landscape was Sturridge’s dream. We couldn’t care less about it.”

     And that is probably what makes you, in the eyes of the powers that be, the perfect people to keep it safe from Valentine and Kenneth. If you want to protect a priceless treasure from harm, don’t send in someone who will covet it for themselves.

     “But what sort of harm does an original idea need protecting from?” Michael questioned, his brow still furrowed. “What exactly do Valentine and Kenneth intend to do with it?”

     That I do not know. But, knowing those two, it won’t be anything good. And their quest to get their hands on it is already causing waves across the landscape. Which you would know if you had bothered to actually read the letters I sent you.

     There was that frostiness in the air again. I hurriedly scoured my memory for some pertinent detail from Bob’s letters but all that flashed through my mind were descriptions of wild parties and naked penises. In the end all I could say was, “But still…”

     All you need to know is that if the powers that be have interested themselves in the affair, then they must foresee a whole heap of trouble. They don’t rouse themselves to action for just any old petty squabble. And, after all, if you think about it, the original idea is where the landscape of the imagination begins. Take that away and you have no landscape at all.

     Michael and I shared a rather uncomfortable look.

So, perhaps you might just take my word for it if I suggest that it would be better for all concerned if you two stop interfering in the tale of Juarez and Don Pedro and knuckle down to your own story instead.

***************************

Still reeling as I was from our encounter with Bob, I think it’s hardly surprising that it was a while after Michael and I had finally entered the dining room for breakfast before it occurred to me that there was something not quite right with the picture presented around the table. On the surface, in fact, everything seemed to be very much in order. Don Pedro’s sons wolfed down great platefuls of meat whilst his daughters picked listlessly at bits of fruit. Dona Elena sweated profusely beneath a towering wig and spent most of the meal gazing mournfully at a bowl of sugar. Don Pedro himself sat proudly at the head of the table, pompously spouting a litany of bigoted drivel.

     But eventually it struck me that the Governor himself was the incongruous element in the scene. After all, the last time we had seen him he had looked every inch a broken man, grasping helplessly onto the rail of the veranda while his carefully laid plans dissolved before his very eyes. The whole garrison had more or less scattered to the furthest corners of the province this morning in fear of how he might react to his defeat. And yet, here he was, casually sipping coffee and reciting racist nonsense as if nothing had happened.

     “It’s good to see you in such fine spirits this morning, Your Excellency,” Michael eventually felt moved to remark. “I was afraid you might be a little downhearted after…” Here he floundered a little, not knowing quite how to refer to the events of the previous night. “That is, thanks to…”

     “Thanks to the utter failure of my incompetent guardsmen to even hang onto the one prisoner we had, let alone capture Juarez?” Don Pedro calmly filled in where Michael had once again rather awkwardly tailed off.

     “Well, yes, something like that,” admitted Michael.

     “I won’t deny that I was rather despondent at first,” confessed Don Pedro. “The hours just before dawn were fairly black indeed. But then, with the rising of the sun, I had a revelation. Such trials are sent by God and the true man of destiny will always find a way to overcome them.”

     “That’s the spirit. It’s always best to look on the bright side,” I told him encouragingly. “In fact, if you look at it from a community relations perspective, you might even agree that it’s actually a good thing that there’ll be no hanging in the Plaza today.”

     “Oh, there’ll be a hanging in the Plaza today,” Don Pedro blithely responded. “I can assure you of that.”

     Michael and I exchanged a worried glance. “But how… I mean, who?” I nervously asked. “You said yourself, you have neither Juarez nor One-Eyed Alfonso.”

     “That’s true. And what I realised in the early hours of this morning was that so long as I continue in the same fashion, I never will,” Don Pedro coldly replied. “I have been allowing the bandits to fight this war on their own terms. They strike at will, then slink back into the shadows, protected and encouraged by an ignorant population who have been tricked into seeing them as heroes, rather than the villains that they truly are. In order to capture the bandits, I must open the eyes of the citizens to the true nature of things.”

     The glances of Michael and I grew ever more worried. “And how exactly do you intend to do that?” Michael asked with some trepidation.

     “Before I came in to breakfast, I had a proclamation issued around the town,” announced Don Pedro. “It states that unless the bandit Juarez surrenders himself immediately and unconditionally to the authorities then a citizen of Santa Marta, selected at random, will go to the gallows at noon in his place.”

     “What?”

     “You can’t!”

     “And what is more,” continued Don Pedro, ignoring our outbursts, “if he still doesn’t surrender, I will hang another citizen at noon tomorrow. And another the day after. And another the day after that.” He paused and cast a truly chilling smile around the table. “I swear to you now that I will put an end to this banditry once and for all, even if I have to hang every citizen in the province to do it.”

To be continued…