Navigator – Chapter 6 – A Sunday Short Story

Posted bySuzette BenjaminPosted inSunday Short Story
Image credit: © lovepik.com

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6

“Sir are you alright? Would you like some water?”

Asked the hotel’s frontdoor porter. He stood attentively hovering over Maatu who was rubbing his head vigorously, laying prone on the lavish pink marble and granite hotel lobby entranceway.

“Awwwugh…”

Moaned Maatu, rolling to a seated position. His head throbbed, like a Mardi Gras hangover.

Maatu, scrambled, groggy and staggering, while the hotel porter, a gentle, kind-faced migrant worker from Cotabato Province, Mindanao, helped Maatu steady his steps as the two ambled into the hotel’s main lobby.

Taking a few wobbly steps and shaking his head trying to clear his vision, Maatu mumbled:

“Pack a mean hit, there Navigator, you suckered me into the old “bait and switch.”

“Sir?” Asked the hotel porter quizzically. His name: “Louis,” neatly engraved on the gold name badge on his uniform’s breast pocket flap. His perfect English with a Tagalog twang inflected as he spoke, expressing his genuine concern.

“Would you like me to call the police? I saw what happened.”

“Oh no, no, no! Just some friends of mine playing a prank. May I book a room to get out of this storm?”

“Yes Sir, right this way, Sir.”

Depositing Maatu, still groggy at the front counter of the Jumeirah Al Naseem Southeby’s Hotel main reception, Louis then swiftly spun on his heels, retraced his steps, and resumed his vigil at his post.

Checking into his suite, Maatu flopped on the silk sheets of the well-appointed room. He had no illusions. His client, who Maatu was convinced had eyes everywhere, would soon discover if he hadn’t already, that he had failed.

Maatu had survived centuries thus far as a “tracer” by outfoxing his botched jobs by going to ground for as long as necessary.

Being immortal, he would settle down in a backwater city on the edge of nowhere, and surface only after he learned that his client had succumbed to the vicissitudes of ordinary human life expectancy.

Yet, he had a feeling, that he might not be so lucky this time. Maatu reasoned that if he was correct in his guess that he had taken a job with Him…and had failed, there would be no place on earth safe enough to hide.

This being, this Him was so feared, that even in the dark realms no one dared give him a name except for his own description of himself: “I am legion, for we are many.”

Maatu struggled to roll sideways on the bed, wincing in pain from his head trauma. Picking up the hotel room phone’s receiver on the over-the-top, for his minimalist tastes, Louis XVI Infinity Rose nightstand, Maatu ordered an early breakfast and a fresh pot of their finest Jamaica High Mountain coffee.

He chuckled as he hung up the phone… “Ha!…perhaps I have just ordered my last meal.”

****

Meanwhile a few miles away outside…

“I can not see a thing…”

Said Isabella, struggling to speak. Her syllables were immediately consumed by the voracious blistering sandstorm pummeling her body on the Dubai highway pavement.

She and Old Sisyphus crouched low, motionless, holding on to one another.

“Can you do your thing and get us out of here?”

“I can try…”

Said Isabella knowing full well that Old Sisyphus, was not who he seemed…at all.

Trained to discern evil beings since she was a child, Isabella knew that the being claiming to be her CIA partner was an imposter and worse, he had the distinct odor of a demon which his apparent recent baptism in a vat of the real Old Sisyphus’ aftershave could not hide.

Isabella noted since their escape from the Burj Al Arab hotel’s rooftop, that Old Sisyphus seemed not himself.

Then, he failed her “test” question as they plummeted from the Dubai sky earlier this morning: “Do you trust me, Old friend.” The real Old Sisyphus knew that question was their agreed upon litmus test to confirm their respective identity if either one got suspicious of the other.

Therefore while this imposter pretending to be Old Sisyphus looked like him, and spoke like him, he certainly did not know that the answer to the question: “Do you trust me” was “No, I don’t trust anyone, after all, I am a bloody spy.”

Of course, she needed concrete proof to go with her gut before she could level any accusations.

Isabella was even a bit suspicious of her grandmother’s sudden and recent passing. Did this imposter, perhaps have anything to do with that, she wondered.

But she had to keep her emotions in check. What kept her going, playing along with the fake Old Sisyphus was her hope that the real Old Sisyphus might still be alive out there somewhere and that this imposter could lead to her old friend.

So in response to the fake “Old Sisyphus”‘ request, Isabella faked an attempt to slip with her divinely guided wings into the slither of the nether realm known in the scriptures as the vortex of the knowledge of good and evil.

With great flourish, Isabella pretended to engage her gift. But, instead of opening the infinity door to the vortex; she pretended to collapse, fainting at the fake Old Sisyphus’s feet, the sandstorm raging around them, helping her sell the rouse.

“Sh_@#__,” mumbled the fake “Old Sisyphus” under his breath, frustrated.

Then the fake Old Sisyphus sprouted dark blue wings from his spine. His wings were living, breathing tissue; not the poofy feathers of myth and legend.

His wings were a separate being from himself; but, eternally condemned to do his bidding. The tattoos decorating the wings were not artwork, they were alive, desperately moving in place, and trapped with nowhere to go.

Angrily cursing, the fake “Old Sisyphus” picked up Isabella and spirited (flew) her to his rendevous with his boss and Overlord, sooner than he had hoped—at Jumeirah Al Naseem Southeby’s Hotel.

Shortly thereafter, as the crow flies…

Pretending to come around from her “collapse” Isabella mumbled feebly:

“…Did it work? Where are we?”

“No, it did not, I flagged down a passing delivery truck. We are at Jumeirah Al Naseem Southeby’s Hotel in our employer’s (The CIA) suite/safe house.”

Replied the fake “Old Sisyphus” convincingly…or so he thought.

****

Meanwhile in downtown Dubai…

As swiftly as it came, the sandstorm disappeared over the Arabian Sea carrying Setho Zang, queen of the harpies, and her inglorious horde scampering to avoid the Sun’s first winks at her devotee, the horizon.

Mr. Tomb listened. Able to compartmentalize, a critical skill in his trade, he blocked out the putrid vapors of his garbage dumpster accommodations, checking the sounds outside his makeshift abode for a break in the sandstorm.

Sensing that all was quiet outside the dumpster, tentatively, he lifted the heavy metal lid.

Mr. Tomb peeked out into the Dubai alleyway. He glanced quickly both ways and then leaped out.

He stripped. He removed his heavily soiled and now tattered jacket and trousers and flung them into the dumpster.

Next, he removed and tossed in his fowl-smelling shoes which had filled up with sand mingled with oozing goopy bits of garbage during his impromptu retreat into the dumpster.

Without a second thought, Mr. Tomb opened his wallet from his shirt pocket and removed his remaining cash and the key to his nearest stash, a secret locker in Oman.

In addition, he discarded his wallet with his credit cards, and the fake identifications he had used for his last job.

Tucking his little remaining cash and the key to his secret locker in his shirt pocket, Mr. Tomb walked away from his old life into the shadows of an unknown future wearing only the shirt on his back…

****To Be Continued Next Sunday****

Published by Suzette Benjamin

Positive thinker, inspirational, writer, faith

80 thoughts on “Navigator – Chapter 6 – A Sunday Short Story”

      1. Lol, when we were young there was an annual Mardi Gras fundraaising event at one of our sportsfields.
        Well known for its after Mardi Gras headaches.
        Was great fun though.
        I can’t believe how effortlessly we made money back then for our clubs and charities.
        Mardi Gras hangover took me down memory lane.

        Liked by 1 person

  6. 👾Maatu had survived centuries thus far as a “tracer” by outfoxing his botched jobs by going to ground for as long as necessary.👾

    Wow what a temperament and disposition.

    👾Being immortal, he would settle down in a backwater city on the edge of nowhere, and surface only after he learned that his client had succumbed to the vicissitudes of ordinary human life expectancy.👾

    LOLLLLZZZ, this is a brilliant inset, especially the last part.
    Like a submarine he will surface some day.

    👾Yet, he had a feeling, that he might not be so lucky this time. 👾

    Ouch

    👾”I am legion, for we are many.”👾
    A throng of countless fighters, one after the other as in code, they come.

    👾Maatu ordered an early breakfast and a fresh pot of their finest Jamaica High Mountain coffee.👾

    Ah Maatu receives coffee
    I love that coffee, use to market one of those many moons ago
    In the days when stilleto simply graced my foot.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Maatu, peedles his skills, then wisely lays low when things go sideways. And as you say so well…”surfaces” when the dust settles.

      More to come on “Him” aka: Mr. “call me I am legion, for we are many.” 👍

      Oh wow, you marketed coffee! Awesome. Lots of travel to be sure.
      Jamaica High Mountain is up there with the best of coffees in my opinion ☕️

      Liked by 1 person

      1. For these moments sealed, I can’t wait for the links to be revealed.

        Lovely coffee.
        No I actually marketed it locally
        Quite a bit of work before they get onto the shelves, especially with the South African Bureau of Standards in those days.

        Liked by 1 person

  8. ✒Her syllables were immediately consumed by the voracious blistering sandstorm pummeling her body on the Dubai highway pavement.✒

    Oh wind please carry those syllables to the wings of the eagle, so it can abide there.

    Bugger that voracious sandstorm 👿

    Liked by 1 person

  9. 👾Trained to discern evil beings since she was a child, Isabella knew that the being claiming to be her CIA partner was an imposter and worse, he had the distinct odor of a demon which his apparent recent baptism in a vat of the real Old Sisyphus’ aftershave could not hide.👾

    Oh I was just about to ask how she knows after reading the previous paragraph.
    What an amazing sense of smell.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. 👾With great flourish, Isabella pretended to engage her gift. But, instead of opening the infinity door to the vortex; she pretended to collapse, fainting at Old Sisyphus’s feet, the sandstorm raging around them, helping her sell the rouse.👾

    This is a secret agent ballet
    I love it

    Liked by 1 person

  12. 👾that the real Old Sisyphus might still be alive out there somewhere and that this imposter could lead to her old friend.👾

    ❤, so fragile and strong

    Liked by 1 person

  13. 👾His wings were living, breathing tissue; not the poofy feathers of myth and legend.👾

    Breathing tissue
    😱 screaming😱

    👾His wings were a separate being from himself; 👾

    Oh gosh, oh my word
    How deeply you penetrated this scene

    Liked by 1 person

  14. 👾Angrily cursing, the fake “Old Sisyphus” picked up Isabella and spirited (flew) her to his rendevous with his boss and Overlord, sooner than he had hoped—at Jumeirah Al Naseem Southeby’s Hotel.👾

    Maatu?

    👾As swiftly as it came, the sandstorm disappeared over the Arabian Sea carrying Setho Zang, queen of the harpies, and her inglorious horde scampering to avoid the Sun’s first winks to her devotee, the horizon.👾

    You always give her such a dramatic entry back into the throes of things
    The transportation is breathtaking

    Like

  15. 👾Mr. Tomb listened. Able to compartmentalize, a critical skill in his trade,👾

    I am fascinated by this skill. They said the former president of the USA, Bill Clinton, had this skill.

    Liked by 1 person

  16. 👾Tucking his little remaining cash and the key to his secret locker in his shirt pocket, Mr. Tomb walked away from his old life into the shadows of an unknown future wearing only the shirt on his back.👾

    Oh my word, what have you done here.
    Both chilling and thrilling
    A glorious closing to this chapter- we need to just put music to it-
    As he walks into the sunset, a perfect calm before the next storm.

    👏👏👏
    Applause for the Author

    Liked by 1 person

    1. You said it…”calm before the storm”…More to come😊

      Thank you for your fabulous support and your deep delving into the plot. I appreciate you!
      Much love to you. Peace

      Happy rest of your day. Cheers.

      Liked by 1 person

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