THE SHADOW OVER VINLAND sample: “Vovechia”

Jeffrey was hit full in the face by the chill wind swooping down off the mountains as he exited the DC-3, almost flip­ping his hat from his head. The air was soggy with the smell of pine, and earth, and various livestock, and something un­familiar like sour ginger. The sun hid behind thick clouds and the huge mountains on both sides of this bowl that loomed like humorless adults over the toy-like airplane.

The airfield only qualified as such by the frayed windsock at one end of the cleared field that served as a runway. A beaten sign close to where the DC-3 was disengorging pas­sengers proclaimed, in Roman characters with a bewilder­ing number of accents and diacriticals, something Jeffrey couldn’t read at all except the name of the tiny country: Vovechia. Or was that the name of the town? Or both?

Until seeing that sign, Jeffrey realized, he still hadn’t be­lieved that “Vovechia” was a real place, and deep down he still wasn’t convinced one hundred percent.

His fellow passengers stood near him, standing on the hard-packed earth that probably would become ankle-deep mud if those dark clouds finally let loose. There were five Chinese men from Hong Kong, plus a German man and wife, and an Englishman that Jeffrey already knew peripher­ally and didn’t like much. The plane was only half-full, but when the U.S. State Department warns that their military operations in Vietnam might screw up international busi­ness in all of Southeast Asia, a canny expat knew it was time to close the import-export office—first getting his fam­ily out of Hong Kong, then making arrangements for himself once he had settled as much business as he could. Janet and the kids were now safely with her parents in New Hamp­shire, but by the time Jeffrey was ready to join them, a flight with third-rate Indo-Asian Airlines was his only option.

Jeffrey looked at the engine hanging under the left wing. Was that the one the pilot had said might be acting up? It looked old and tired, just like the rest of the plane, but not dangerously so. Then again, with the massive storm which had turned most of the leg of the trip from New Delhi into a game of keepaway with the weather, it was probably pru­dent to set down here rather than try to push on to Munich. Wherever “here” was; there wasn’t a map to be found any­where in the passenger cabin.

Long before anyone saw it, they could hear their transport­ation coming, grumbling like a snowmobile with asthma. What rounded a clump of stunted trees and came into view looked even worse than it sounded: A rust-coated Soviet pickup truck at least a couple of decades old, with its bed built from spare lumber into a covered compartment of sorts.

Jeffrey found himself standing next to the sole stewardess—her name tag said “Trudy”—who had just left the plane with the pilot and copilot. “You’re sure this isn’t a Commun­ist country?”

Her professional smile was bolted onto her face, even if it was fraying around the edges from exhaustion. “Positive, Mr. Hamblin,” she said. She was blonde and in her early thirties, and the tiredness hanging off her face wasn’t the baked-in fatigue of someone who had been defying time zones for too many years. “The captain received assurances over the radio that we could set down without difficulty, and of course Indo-Asian will be covering all accommodations until we get back in the air.”

“Well,” he said, trying for his charming smile, “I hope at least they have better cigarettes here than they had in New Delhi.”

Trudy’s smile became a little more genuine. “You and me both, sir.”

“Jeffrey, please.”

“Jeffrey.”

He shook her hand with awkward good humor—they had, after all, spent far too many hours in the air together already. One of Jeffrey’s rules was Never take it out on the help. It made life better, especially for an international bus­inessman who had studiously observed the 500-Mile Rule throughout his marriage.

The vehicle pulled up to where they were standing with a shudder and an engine pop. Out of the cab crawled a little man wearing a worn parka too large for him. The sheepskin cap on his head, wool side out, was shaped like nothing Jeffrey had ever seen before. His skin was a marinated brown, either from parentage or from a life lived in the sun and wind. His squinting eyes were so dark, they looked like they were nothing but pupil.

With a wave and a gap-toothed smile, the little man ges­tured them to throw their luggage on the rack on top and climb in the back. The Chinese did so without hesitation. Glancing between themselves, the Germans followed suit.

The Englishman said to no one, “The deucedest thing,” as if he need to prove his British bona fides, then awkwardly clambered in.

Jeffrey gallantly offered to help Trudy in, but she shook her head. “We need to stay with the plane for a little while,” she said. “Then we’ll get another ride.”

Jeffrey watched the little man climb back into the driver’s seat and pump the gas several times to keep the idling en­gine from stalling. “Or probably the same one,” he answered. “Hopefully I’ll see you at whatever the accommodations are.”

Her smile was at least fifty percent genuine, and her eyes actually found his as she said, “I hope so, Mr. Hamblin… Jeffrey.”

Then Jeffrey bundled himself into the back of the truck, which smelled strongly of pigs and other less identifiable livestock, and sat with one cheek on the wheel cutout.

Beyond the row of stunted trees was the town itself, al­though “village” was probably more appropriate. Jeffrey, looking out the back of the truck’s jerry-rigged bed compart­ment, saw the homes present themselves to him after they had passed, huddled buildings of ancient brick or stone, all taking on the same color as the mud that showed in their tire tracks. The streets were partially cobbled at the intersec­tions; otherwise, they were more of the same beaten-down dirt. The road they were on seemed like an afterthought, winding its way between buildings which had grown up as organically as clumps of mushrooms. A dog limped furtively from a doorway around a corner; an old woman—or at least a shawled figure with the hunched posture of an old woman—followed it, with a glance back toward the truck and a quick hand gesture that might have been a ward against the evil eye.

…

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