.I.

Day broke less than an hour ago when we find out heroin standing poised at the precipice of a long overgrown mountain passage. She contemplates a strategy to best get her down it in one piece. Her helmet sits jauntily atop the aggregation of dreadlocks that reach all the way down to mid back. With the suddenness of a startled flight of sparrows, she kicks off; peddling as though Lucifer himself is nipping at her heals. Agatha barrels down the mountain on what used to be a ten-speed bike before the derailleur snapped off, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and the straps of her helmet flapping by uselessly. One speed seems to do her just find. Besides, it hadn’t occurred to her to salvage the part from another bike. She doesn’t ride on a path. In fact there are no paths anymore. Instead she does her best to navigate between trees and fallen logs, on occasion vaulting over boulders or skidding on loose leaves. Everyday this week she’s attempted to get down this particular way on two wheels. So far her efforts have been a spectacular failure. The pads she wears on her elbows and knees are so old they are more like to harm her than give much protection. She just wears them for effect. Most people would have found another way after the total wipeouts she’s experienced by extreme pigheadedness sends her back for more. She’s become an expert mountain biker in the last two years of forced roughing it. A fat lot of good it’s done her other than to put more scars on her body and lend a hand in the slow genocide of brain cells. The shocks on her bike are half past old and every bump rattles her spine a little more. This does nothing to deter her rapid descent. It is a glorious morning. The sky is an almost blue colour and the crows and buzzards are chirping away cheerfully. It would have reminded her of the good old days if she had done this sort of thing.

Somewhere in the bushes, Tigerlilly has hidden herself away, hunkered down with the old Kodak they’d picked up weeks before at a traveling flea market. The thing would still be broken if it weren’t in the possession of such small fingers. She’s recently made inroads into developing her skills as a photographer. If they still had art schools she’s be a prime candidate.

Agatha comes screaming down the precipice towards Tigerlilly at a foolhardy speed. AT the last second she becomes airborne, circumventing a fallen log. She soars gracefully through the air, her flight captured artfully by Tigerlilly. She would have landed gracefully if it weren’t for the giant rock that decided to place itself right under her rear tire, catapulting her forward into her handlebars. The combination of the high speeds and the awkward landing causes the bike to lurch forward in an impressive 360 with Agatha still clutching onto the thing. In an astounding defiance of physics, the bike seems to pause while completely upside down just long enough for her to make a solo plummet to the ground. She lands with a dry sort of thus in some dirt and dry leaves. The final landing leaves her sprawled in a gangled heap. Her helmet, which has always been ill fitting over the mass of dreadlocks, lies ten feet away squashing an innocent fern. A number of branches make an attempt at catching her but only succeed in tearing at her clothes and flesh. Tigerlilly also captures this.

Once the dust settles there is an eerie complete silence as if the forests is holding its breath. Tigerlilly stealthily creeps through the brush over to Agatha’s side. She pokes her wordlessly. The minutes slip by doing their best to go unnoticed before she draws in the long shuddering gasp denoting life and consciousness reentering her body.

“Balls.”

With not so much an inspection as a quick, sloppy, dust off Agatha hoisted her miraculously unscathed bike over her shoulder and made for camp. There is much grunting on Agatha’s part as they trek sideways along the mountain. Her lungs aren’t so keen on pulling their weight after a good knock about. Each grunt elicits a tiny giggle from Tigerlilly, who finds a morbid enjoyment in other’s suffering.

Even at a distance, smoke from the not so recently deceased fire can be seen still hovering over the campsite. The campsite itself is in shambles. Chaos that one would think can only be achieved by stampeding elephants. The behemoth that is Orestes slings the heaviest of crates over his shoulder effortlessly, his muscles rippling fluidly under smooth olive skin making the scrawling black ink dance. The only thing marring this perfect Adonis is the scarring of an angry on his back, only visible where his tattered singlet doesn’t cover.

“Animals! Barbarians! Couldn’t even contain your lust for one morning!”

Orestes rolls his eyes at Agatha’s over dramatic flailing. Annoyance oozes off him in waves. Her bike dropping to the ground with a metallic clatter inspires an impressive twitch that causes Orestes to out the box he’s holding more heavily than he intended, the contents of which clatter around more than is strictly good for them. He rounded on Agatha.

“Keelah threw a fit this morning trying to fix your stupid truck. I was woken up by the radio flying through my tent. I spent the next half hour chasing him around while he upturned everything. The fucker is unhinged.”

Agatha appraises the scene with a rather bored look on her face. She doesn’t see what he’s getting so uppity about. With a shrug she states,

“He didn’t touch my stuff.”

Tigerlilly lets out a joyous little laugh as Orestes’ face first pales and then flushes a nice shade of puce. He makes a grab for her but misses as she melts easily into the nearby bushes.

“Where have you been, anyway?” It is only at this point thst hr fully appraises her appearance. Dried leaves still cling to her hair and clothes. Her face and most other exposed skin is be-speckled with dirt, making her looked tanned instead of the angry burnt colour she normally is. The shine of fresh blood stands out in the crud, where it trickles out of fresh cuts and abrasions. This is not much different from her normal appearance which is probably why Orestes did not pick up on it until now.

“On the mountain.”

“Again?”

Just as Orestes is expressing his consternation, Keelah pops up between them.

“Mistress has returned!” He slurs this out in his broken accent, (A mixture of British and Australian that they’ve never been able to figure out) with grease all over his face, sticking back his thick, lumpy dreads. Removing his goggles he squints at her intently with a crooked smile plastered goofily on his visage. Orestes deftly pushes him out of the way to gather up more things off the ground. He stops what he’s doing to look curiously at Agatha.

“Why are you grabbing yourself like that?” She was in the process of keenly massaging her left breast.

“I fell,” is all she gives by way of explanation. Keelah’s interest is instantly peeked.

“Let us have a look-see, Lovey. Come on now.” She continues what she is doing, pretending to have not heard his request.

“Sometimes I wish I could just take my tits off and leave them in a jar by the door.”

“I hate to break it to you but if it weren’t for your ample bosom you’d have probably cracked your sternum open by now.”

“Hey Orestes, why don’t you be a perfect house wife and make me some coffee.” Agatha begins to strip off her poor excuse for padding to the soundtrack of the most exotic curse words Orestes can remember hearing from his ‘Old Country’ relatives.

“Keelah, how’s my baby doing?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this, she is a very special lady, like see, particular even, and she likes to have everything just so. Just like those high to do ladies you see in the markets with they’re fancy bonnets and fur coats.”

“It’s a pick up truck not your mother’s Sunday prayer group.” Orestes interjects testily as he attempts to revive the long dead fire pit.

“Shhh… Don’t let her hear that or she won’t be starting at all.”

“Boys. Give me the poop. I don’t feel like being anyone’s mother right now.” She struggles with the last strap of her shin guard that has managed to get twisted and jammed during her exploits.

“She won’t start. Well, she will but it’ll drain the battery. She won’t take the right dirty drink I fixed up for her.” He cowers away from Agatha expecting some extreme fit of wrath.

“So put her in a time out. We’ll get her more booze in town.”

“’ey! I ain’t walking all that way, humping all those hides to that damn shanty town full of hippies. You get that damn truck started. Now. And then helping me get this mess cleaned up!”

Orestes’ hands come out of nowhere and scoop up Keelah, shaking him violently. The little vain on Orestes’ forehead threatens to burst. He’s not having a very good morning. A scuffle ensues, mostly one-sided seeing as Keelah’s lanky frame has never been an advantage in any sort of combat. Just as the show is really getting good, Tigerlilly cools it down by dumping a bucket of water over the two, simultaneously dousing Orestes’ efforts at restoring the fire to its former glory. Agatha sighs contently as the morning’s chaos unfolds.