Knowing that the Freemen would be hot on his trail, Kandude kept the pedal to the metal as he put distance between himself and the ranch. He knew also that he had to get rid of the truck PDQ.
After he picked up the Interstate headed East, he soon saw the familiar and welcome sign of the Flying Q truck stop. He pulled in to lose himself and the truck in the crowded parking lot. Suddenly, he saw a familiar big rig. Sure enough, when he walked, cautious and alert, into the café, he and the friendly truck driver spotted each other right way. He or she rushed up and gave him a warm hug. “I have been so worried about you and the ladies,” he or she said. “I myself was glad to make it out of there alive. Come tell me what happened.”
Kandude related all that had happened, including the shootout as he was making his escape. He expressed grave concern for the safety of his beloved Cardoshia and the Old Woman. The friendly trucker, who revealed that his or her name was or was not Briar, expressed grave concern as well, and wondered if they should call the police. Kandude thought about the People’s Rights Armory. “I think not,” he said. “That could start a war and make our fair ladies’ situation all the more perilous. This new disaster truly makes me wonder about my dear Professor B’s axiom that all is for the best in this best of all possible capitalistic worlds.”
“I will say this,” opined Briar, “The Old Woman seems wise and resourceful, and Cardoshia is infinitely charming. I am guessing they will find their way until you can come up with a plan.”
After a sober interval of silence, Briar said, “I have my new dispatch. After dropping this load in Abilene, I pick up another at the distribution center in Dallas-Ft. Worth for home goods which I must deliver to Seattle. This is, I admit, a detour from your objects, but it will buy some time for things to cool down, to ponder strategy, and get to a safer part of the country. The Freemen are surely out looking for you this very minute.”
Kandude’s only impressions of Seattle, besides the Space Needle, were that it was loaded with ultraliberals who perpetually quaffed elaborate coffee drinks, worshipped Kurt Cobain, and wanted to defund the police.
“Listen, Kandude,” said Briar, “you seem capable and well-travelled – is there any chance you can drive an 18-wheeler?” Kandude allowed that he could, thanks to the Boyzenberries.
“Let’s make the run together – I will split the mileage with you,” said Briar. “We won’t get rich, but will have a decent payday and make our way to a city with fewer guns per capita. I have friends there.”
Lacking a better option and appreciating Briar’s kindness, Kandude agreed. They made the run through Dallas and to Seattle in good time. At one point, Kandude put his hand in his pocket and discovered the forgotten object given to him by his beloved Cardoshia. It was a 3”x4” color headshot of her looking exceedingly fetching. It instantly became his most cherished possession of all time.
After dropping their load in the industrial district, Briar parked his truck in a commercial lot, and they caught an Uber to his friend’s place in an old neighborhood North of downtown.
Briar and Kandude arrived at a modest craftsman home on a tree-lined street. They went into the house without knocking. Briar was greeted warmly by an eclectic group of a half dozen people including Briar’s special friend Daphne. Kandude was made welcome by the group. It being a Saturday afternoon, they drank wine and lemonade on a brick patio under a honeysuckle-wrapped trellis. All took an interest in Kandude and his journey, but none pressed for details once sensing his discretion.
Later in the afternoon, Daphne said she had a good lawyer friend who had a large boat at a nearby marina, and she had an open invitation to use it. Briar and another friend were enthusiastic about a sunset cruise, and Kandude, having boated Lake Michigan over the summers on one of P-M’s luxury yachts, agreed to join them, distracted though he was by the plight of Cardoshia and the Old Woman.
The Minnow Too turned out to be a sleek and luxurious 40-foot powerboat. The lawyer, referred to as The Skipper when in nautical endeavor, was on board with a couple of other friends, one of whom was an extremely large, affable man who appeared to be some Polynesian type. He had elaborate curlicue tattoos on his face. The other was a slight man with thick glasses and a gray fringe of hair who looked like a rabbi. The Skipper and his companions were delighted to see Daphne and her friends. He offered them cocktails, and as the afternoon was waning, proposed they take a sunset cruise in Puget Sound.
The evening began in spectacular fashion, as they powered at high speed toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Suddenly, the sky grew dark. Out of nowhere, a violent storm beset the Minnow Too with howling fury. Sheets of horizonal rain erased any sense of the horizon, and monster waves heaved them about like a peanut shell in a savage cauldron. They were swept far along in directions impossible to discern for a length of time they could not measure. The Skipper, a capable boater, did the best anyone could, but the boat was struck by a rogue wave and capsized. Kandude and the Polynesian fellow grabbed opposite handles of a huge cooler as they desperately thrashed about in the ocean looking for their companions, but to no avail. They struggled to stay afloat in the boiling seas for hours. Finally, they were cast roughly up on a rocky shore in the dead of night. They dragged the cooler and each other up to the tree line where they collapsed in pain and exhaustion.
When they came to their senses in the morning, the weather was serene. Sheer cliffs and the rocky shore surrounded the tiny crescent beach, cut only by a narrow ravine. They looked at one another, and having no other choice, began clawing their way up the steep crevice.
“You are a strong swimmer, sir,” said Kandude. “I thank you for saving my life. My name is Kandude.” “I am Tanemahuta,” said the powerful man. “And though we Māori are excellent watermen, I believe it was you who saved my life.” Both men concluded that their companions were almost certainly lost.
The men exchanged brief stories as they clawed their way up the steep ravine. Kandude learned that Tanemahuta had been variously engaged as a sheep farmer, seaman, rodeo champion, postal worker, farrier, and a councilman on the South Island of his native New Zealand. He spoke several languages and was currently in Seattle on an international mid-career exchange program. The Skipper, whom they feared certainly drowned, had been his sponsor.
The men climbed for hours, sustained only by the rivulet that drained the ravine, until they reached an opening that revealed a narrow valley of manicured fields surrounded by steep cliffs in all directions.
On the cliffs above, they saw large numbers of windmills and solar panels. The many waterfalls and streams had numerous small waterwheels. There lay a finely groomed gravel road, which they followed through diverse crop fields until they arrived at a village composed of modest but finely built wooden homes, all exquisitely neat and beautifully landscaped. They noticed that all the structures had large nets suspended high above them, as if to protect them from some threat above.
As they walked further into town, they happened upon a system of pedestrian conveyors, which swiftly transported people in all directions. They passed a school yard, where modestly but neatly dressed children of diverse heritage were playing spiritedly together. As they watched, a dignified, smiling woman, perhaps the principal, clapped and summoned the young ones to tables under a pergola. The long tables were filled with a variety of fruits, vegetables and many other excellent-looking dishes, not including hot dogs or French fries. The children lined up in a courteous and orderly fashion and marched in for their midday fare.
Shortly, a courteous passerby greeted them. He noted they appeared to have had some difficulty and escorted them quickly via the conveyers to a clean, modern medical facility that also contained a large women’s clinic. Friendly, capable doctors and nurses patched them up and gave them wraps and salves for their assorted abrasions and contusions. When Kandude and Tanemahuta, begging forgiveness, offered to pay as soon as they could do so, the amused staff waved them off, advising them that health care, a basic human right, was free here in Changrilalaland. They directed the men to a nearby roadhouse, which recommendation was most welcome as the shipwrecked men were famished.
The roadhouse offered fresh local farm-to-table fare in great variety. When payment was again embarrassingly broached, the restaurateurs laughed. “Gentlemen, it is plain that you are strangers,” said the manager. “You doubtless have not the coin of the country, but it is not necessary to have money at all to dine in this house. All hostelries established for the convenience of commerce are paid for by the government of Changrilalaland.”
Kandude and Tanemahuta were amazed by all they saw and experienced. They expressed great curiosity about the nature of the Changrilalaland, which clearly was not a jurisdiction of America. They asked the roadhouse manager how they could learn more about the country. “I am but a humble restauranteur, gentlemen,” she said, “but there is a retired councilman who is most learned in all things related to our history and government.”
CHAPTER XV. WHAT KANDUDE AND TANEMAHUTA LEARN ABOUT CHANGRILALALAND