Tweet
Myron Cartwright had dreamed for years of visiting all of the world’s most faraway places, a vision he had to admit never involved being sacrificed to an active volcano.
“I don’t suppose there’s any room for negotiation here?” he asked, swinging beneath a bamboo pole carried by fourth hefty native men in broadleaf clothing. Their king, distinguishable only by a faded “Air Jordan” T-Shirt, shook his head.
“You show up and the volcano erupts. Seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said.
Myron stumbled for a response, in no small part to the startling realization that the native king spoke impressive English.
“Okay, okay, I admit an unfortunate confluence of events. But surely you can’t believe one led to the other,” Myron said.
“You’re not the one with a house in the path of an active lava flow,” the king answered. “I’ll grant you the science is a little shaky but you can’t really blame us for taking the chance, right?”
“You won’t think less of me for blaming the living #%$ out of you I presume?”
“Don’t sweat it,” the king said, waving him off.
They drew as close to the top of the volcano as they dared. Smoke billowed from dozens of fissures splitting the surface of the cone. Brilliant streaks of red-hot magma formed lines around them, spitting molten rock into the air. The deep rumble from beneath their feet echoed in their ears. The king put his hands on his hips and looked perplexed.
“Too bad we can’t get closer to the crater,” Myron called over the roar. “Damn shame really.”
The king surveyed the area thoughtfully. “I wonder if stuffing you into one of these lava cracks would satisfy our gods,” he mused.
“I know this isn’t the time or place,” Myron began. “But technically it’s still called magma until it reaches the surface.”
He shrugged as much as the vines binding him to the pole would allow.
“Sue me,” the king said. “I was pre-law at Berkeley, not geology.”
He gestured at the four men bearing Myron and pointed to a gaping hole spouting smoke and ash.
“Wait!” Myron shouted. “You went to college and still believe in volcano sacrifice?”
“You got something against diversity?” the king asked. “What the hell kind of school did you go?”
“I’m not a virgin!” Myron yelled. “You’re supposed to sacrifice a virgin, aren’t you? I’ll mess things up for you with your gods!”
“I always thought that virgin thing was overrated,” the king said. “If we had to wait around for virgins this place would have been wiped off the face of the earth years ago.”
The four bearers began to swing Myron in unison, hoping to heave him into the fissure without singeing their saris off.
“My father is a powerful man!” Myron called. “He’ll send people to look for me!”
The king held up a hand to stop his men and walked closer to Myron.
“Your dad’s in the army or something?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Myron admitted.
“Well?”
Myron cleared his throat. “He owns a winery in California. He supplies the whole country with some of the finest vintages in the world.”
The king thought about this a few seconds. “Which winery?”
Myron told him.
“Well,” the king said. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
Five days later Myron and the king stood near the top of the volcano once more. An even dozen empty wine bottles were scattered across the ground as Myron uncorked another and began pouring it onto the ground.
“You know, this might be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” he said.
“You’re just lucky I went to school not too far from Napa,” the king said. “Besides, is this any weirder than cutting down a perfectly good tree and sticking in your living room every December? We can always go back to plan A if you prefer.”
“No thanks,” Myron said. “I just hope your gods appreciate a good Pinot Noir.”
The king stopped pouring long enough to try a small sip from the bottle.
“I’m sure they do," he said. 'I just hope they don't mind if there are a few bottles missing from the case.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any room for negotiation here?” he asked, swinging beneath a bamboo pole carried by fourth hefty native men in broadleaf clothing. Their king, distinguishable only by a faded “Air Jordan” T-Shirt, shook his head.
“You show up and the volcano erupts. Seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said.
Myron stumbled for a response, in no small part to the startling realization that the native king spoke impressive English.
“Okay, okay, I admit an unfortunate confluence of events. But surely you can’t believe one led to the other,” Myron said.
“You’re not the one with a house in the path of an active lava flow,” the king answered. “I’ll grant you the science is a little shaky but you can’t really blame us for taking the chance, right?”
“You won’t think less of me for blaming the living #%$ out of you I presume?”
“Don’t sweat it,” the king said, waving him off.
They drew as close to the top of the volcano as they dared. Smoke billowed from dozens of fissures splitting the surface of the cone. Brilliant streaks of red-hot magma formed lines around them, spitting molten rock into the air. The deep rumble from beneath their feet echoed in their ears. The king put his hands on his hips and looked perplexed.
“Too bad we can’t get closer to the crater,” Myron called over the roar. “Damn shame really.”
The king surveyed the area thoughtfully. “I wonder if stuffing you into one of these lava cracks would satisfy our gods,” he mused.
“I know this isn’t the time or place,” Myron began. “But technically it’s still called magma until it reaches the surface.”
He shrugged as much as the vines binding him to the pole would allow.
“Sue me,” the king said. “I was pre-law at Berkeley, not geology.”
He gestured at the four men bearing Myron and pointed to a gaping hole spouting smoke and ash.
“Wait!” Myron shouted. “You went to college and still believe in volcano sacrifice?”
“You got something against diversity?” the king asked. “What the hell kind of school did you go?”
“I’m not a virgin!” Myron yelled. “You’re supposed to sacrifice a virgin, aren’t you? I’ll mess things up for you with your gods!”
“I always thought that virgin thing was overrated,” the king said. “If we had to wait around for virgins this place would have been wiped off the face of the earth years ago.”
The four bearers began to swing Myron in unison, hoping to heave him into the fissure without singeing their saris off.
“My father is a powerful man!” Myron called. “He’ll send people to look for me!”
The king held up a hand to stop his men and walked closer to Myron.
“Your dad’s in the army or something?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Myron admitted.
“Well?”
Myron cleared his throat. “He owns a winery in California. He supplies the whole country with some of the finest vintages in the world.”
The king thought about this a few seconds. “Which winery?”
Myron told him.
“Well,” the king said. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
Five days later Myron and the king stood near the top of the volcano once more. An even dozen empty wine bottles were scattered across the ground as Myron uncorked another and began pouring it onto the ground.
“You know, this might be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” he said.
“You’re just lucky I went to school not too far from Napa,” the king said. “Besides, is this any weirder than cutting down a perfectly good tree and sticking in your living room every December? We can always go back to plan A if you prefer.”
“No thanks,” Myron said. “I just hope your gods appreciate a good Pinot Noir.”
The king stopped pouring long enough to try a small sip from the bottle.
“I’m sure they do," he said. 'I just hope they don't mind if there are a few bottles missing from the case.”
cheers
@ unscratchedfoot
Comment