A YOOK BY ANY OTHER NAME

Chapter 13: Meetings and Realizations

by Jo Anzalone

He smiled grimly. Joimus would know the difference. So would Himself. He would not fool them. Especially not with his inability to grow a beard. He almost chuckled as he raised his hand to his face, intending to run his fingers along the line of his moustache.
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By lamplight, Rose worked late into the night. The fabric of the pale yellow gown was such almost cobwebby gossamer that it took actually more of a painstaking reweaving than a mere mend. Mary looked over the top of the script from time to time, watching the careful efforts of the other woman. She and Rose had worked on films together before, knew and liked each other. Finally, she got up and walked close to Rose, looking at the gown in her hands.

"You've done a good job," she commented, "as usual."

 

Rose smiled. This was a bit different, a bit harder, than what she was accustomed to, but she had rather enjoyed the challenge of making the dress looked like it had never been damaged. Without even knowing the full story, only that the General was not himself and had torn it, she somehow knew that complete erasure of the jagged tear was necessary.

Holding the bodice close to the lamp, she turned it so that the light fell upon it from different angles, looking to see if any telltale traces remained. Finding none, she let out a satisfied sigh. "I think I shall go ahead and return it," she explained, "so that it will be there for her when she wakes in the morning."

 

"I'll walk with you," Mary offered, not wanting her friend to be out and about alone in the night when she had heard rumors that some horrid villain was in the area. As they walked, the gown draped carefully over Rose's right arm, they talked about the film and how odd it was to have 26 versions of Himself here at once.

 

"I find I'm getting rather used to it already," Rose commented, "and even that it is a...pleasant...thing." She blushed, glad for the night.

 

Rose tapped lightly on the door and again Pat opened it. "Ah, the dress already," Pat said, taking it from her. "Thank you so much, Rose. All of us appreciate it. I'll lay it where she will see it right away soon as she opens her eyes."

As the two women walked back to their caravan, Mary did not ask the questions that framed in her mind. They spoke of Nicole's dress for the first scene and other matters relating to filming Eucalyptus. Just beyond their caravan was the one that had been assigned to Steve. She was aware of him as she had had to speak with Laura several times that afternoon and he always seemed to be just beside her. She saw someone leaning against the side of that caravan and as there was one more matter she wanted to attend to before retiring for the night, thought she might check with Steve to see whether he knew where Laura might be.

As Rose went up the steps, Mary said, "I'll be back in a minute. I want to ask Steve something."

As she approached, she saw he was wearing very well-fitted white jeans and a plaid shirt. "Steve?" she called softly.

 

The form with the white legs stood straight, watching her approach. "No," he said, cocking his head slightly, "I'm Johnny."

 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied. "I was looking for Steve."

"He's not back yet," Johnny supplied. "Could I help?"

 

"Do...do you know where Laura is?" she asked.

 

"Probably with Steve...wherever Steve is," he said.

 

"I guess it can wait till morning," she shrugged, turning to go.

 

"Don't go," he murmured. "Who are you?"

 

She realized she had not introduced herself as he had. "I'm Mary, Mary Naxos," she said.

 

"Naxos?" he repeated. "It has the sound of Greece to it."

 

"It does indeed," she smiled. "My family has a vineyard there."

 

In the dim light from a lamp post, he could tell she had lovely, wavy dark hair and large, dark eyes. He liked the smile that had come to her lips as she thought of her family's vineyard back in Greece.

 

"You are...Australian?" she asked.

 

 

"Yes," he laughed. "Himself created me quite early on in the game."

 

She knew he meant in the terms of an actor bringing a character to life, only in epis it actually meant a great deal more. He asked her what she did on the movie and she explained about being an assistant director. "I love watching Russ, er, Himself work," she went on. "He will be a marvelous director himself, er, Himself, one day. I study what he does, what he brings to the development of a character. He's quite...special," she ended, blushing slightly.

Johnny reached out to take her hand. "I'm very pleased to have met you, Mary Naxos," he smiled.

"He should have had more control over himself," Bud growled.
 

"You know Sid has done something to him, Bud, changed him," Berti defended.

         
"I know that!" he said, his voice still husky with anger. "But a man should never do that to a woman, not to any woman, especially one he says he loves."

"He more than says it, Bud. You know that."

 

"I thought I did," he said, narrowing his eyes, "but when I saw her huddled there with her gown all torn, I wanted to break him in half." Anger played across his features. "And then...to go to Bunny like he did."

 

"I was shocked to hear that, too," Berti agreed, adding, "Of all the things Maximus has done because of Sid's interference, that one thing is the most unlike him. For the life of me, I cannot understand HOW he could leave Joimus in the condition he did and deliberately go be with someone else." She sighed. "What Sid has done this time has got to be the very worst."

 

"Worse than when he saw her in Uganda and reached for his sword?" Bud asked.

 

"Worse even than that," Berti said sadly. "Worse than that."

Jack sat on a chair in his caravan, studying Maximus. He had seen the General in many states of mind before, and even completely out of it, were the truth to be told, as when his seed had been spilled so violently there on the Plains of Sheba. He thought back to the underlying cause of that, to how Maximus had risked everything, sacrificed everything, to save him from a terrible death in that Ugandan jungle clearing. He would not be here this day were it not for the man who sat across from him. The Captain did not forget such things nor take them lightly.

                                       

Maximus sat now, his hands clasped atop the small table between the two men, his eyes cast down. Never had Jack seem him with such a loss of control as he had witnessed in Bunny's caravan. His lower lid twitched at the memory of it, of what Sid had done to bring Maximus to that. Reaching out his right hand, he lay it briefly on the General's left forearm, squeezing lightly, affectionately. "It will be all right, Maximus," Jack said. "I will do everything I can to...make...it all right again."

MaxiSid looked up then, into Jack's eyes. So much was new to him, and this genuine comradely affection glowing in the Captain's eyes was not among the least of it. He licked his lips, unused to being looked at in such a manner by another character. So this was what Maximus saw. He saw this sort of look in the eyes of others...constantly. Looking into the depths of Jack's eyes, he read the compassion, the worry, the gratitude, the fondness, the purity of their shared friendship. Unconsciously, a muscle in his jaw tightened and began to work. Sharp tears stung the backs of his eyes and he felt again betrayed by the responses of this body. Then his mind clicked into gear and he knew he should work those tears to his advantage. He let them form, let them sparkle in his eyes.

 

"J...Jack," he said falteringly, brushing some of the tears away with the back of his right hand, "I feel so...lost...so unsure."

                                   

                                  

"I know," Jack replied, his own eyes stinging now. "You can count on me, Maximus. I will always be there for you."

 

MaxiSid smiled slightly, carefully controlling the extent to which his lips curved, letting a perfectly lovely ragged breath escape them. "Thank you, Jack," he finally replied. "That means more to me than you know."

 

The Captain indicated the small bed at the back of the caravan. "Rest now, Maximus. I will stay here. Sid will not get near you in the night."

MaxiSid stood then, and went to the back, laying his cape over a chair and crawling under the covers in his tunic. He needed time to think, to plan. It would be easier now, he knew, that Joimus had decided not to engage in certain activities with him until he was his old self again. He could deal with that now he was certain Bunny was there enabling him to find relief. He would do no more with Joimus than cuddle affectionately, just enough to maintain his pretense. He did not think she would make such advances with him again as she had that evening. He began to feel his consciousness drifting away from him in that thing humans called "sleep." He wondered how long it would take him to get used to that. It was such a...vulnerable...thing to have happen to one.

Sidimus' hand stopped in shock. His moustache was gone. He felt his whole chin, finding it beardless. If Sid had shaved him while he was unconscious, would there not be some stubble by now? Had Sid injected him with something that prevented the growth of hair? But WHY? He had left him chained in this shed. Why would he care if he had a beard or not? There was too much that made no sense. His brain was tired. He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep. Searching with his mind, he could see the fields of wheat, could even put himself in the midst of them. He did so, and walked there for some time, becoming aware as he did that he was not really dreaming, but only imagining. Why couldn't he just SLEEP?

                                      
Slowly the night hours passed and peachy dawn light poked its long, slender fingers through the cracks in the front wall of the shed, slid itself down through the missing pieces of the old roofing. He realized he was not awakening, but merely choosing to leave the fields in his mind. Sitting there, he watched the light advance across the room until it grew less peach, more yellow-white, and reached his feet. He saw that he was wearing highly- polished black shoes. He frowned, having seen them many times on Sid's feet. He became entirely occupied with watching the light move up his legs, revealing Sid's hideous purple slacks. He loathed the fact that Sid had changed clothes with him, that his rust-colored tunic rested on the form of one such as he. He would have to boil it before even thinking of wearing it again.

 

A shudder took him and he lifted his gaze, looking across the room. Instantly he was on the alert, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword. Sid was there, looking back at him! He held his breath, steeling himself, every muscle ready to spring. He was surprised at how strong he felt despite a complete lack of food and water for many, many hours now. He gathered his feet under him, rising into a crouch. His eyes quickly roamed the floor near him and he snatched up the large piece of broken brick just to his left. Then he paused, literally gasping, when he saw Sid had done the same thing. It was a mirror! For some reason Sid had put a large mirror directly across the room from him. Why would he do that? What did he hope his prisoner would see? Rising to his feet, brick still clutched, he examined the reflection.

                                    

The purple suit on his body was no longer surprising to him. He had discovered that fact in the night. It was his face that caught his eye and refused to let it go. He looked...younger. His jaw line was tighter and there were no tiny lines at the edges of his eyes. He looked, in fact, exactly like...Sid. He began to shake from head to toe, almost unable to remain standing. This could not be. It simply could not. Not even Sid's diabolical mind was capable of doing...this! No, he decided. This was just some sort of trick, just one more deceit. It was not real. The thought that had entered his mind, it had no validity. It could not. It was not...possible. Yet...he looked at the broken brick. It had one very sharp edge. He closed his eyes, a terrible expression of pain taking possession of his features. Without opening them, he lifted the brick, drawing its edge across his right palm. It hurt, but not in the same way he was familiar with. The sensation of it was...different. He did not want to open his eyes, did not want to look, but knew he must. Slowly he opened them, meeting his own gaze in the mirror before looking at his palm. He stumbled. Sparkling blue was oozing from the cut.

 

"NOOOOO!" he screamed, throwing the brick at his reflection, sinking to his knees in the uttermost depths of despair as the mirror shattered, sending large slivers of itself skittering across the floor toward him.