The Northern Winds - Softcover

Randall, Ian Anthony

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1546239669 ISBN 13: 9781546239666

Verlag: AuthorHouse, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

After their mother is killed by a stray bullet, twin Chilean brothers Benjamin and JC Piñera are swept up in their country’s infamous Cold War-era crisis, which culminates in a coup and a dead president. The boys and their embittered father flee to California, only for the twins to see their refugee life jettison them into another civil war, as naturalized citizens drafted and sent to Vietnam. The boys become Special Ops soldiers, mercenaries stalking the Viet Cong through the dark-hearted jungles of Southeast Asia, until they must escape to save themselves and their best friend. Told through Benjamin’s eyes—now an immigrant grandpa living in the California hills, yet haunted by ghosts from the past—our poignant narrator finally returns to Chile to search for any signs of the family, and the woman he loved, that were left behind.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ian Randall wrote the first draft of The Northern Winds while traveling in Chile, Vietnam and Cambodia, and conducting primary research for the novel. Sundry drafts (and years) later, he is publishing this debut novel. Ian's previous publications include peer-reviewed research articles, white papers, Op-Eds, and essays, including a piece exploring how mass protests in Chile are linked to the country's violent political history. Ian holds a PhD in Health Economics from and teaches at the University of Washington in Seattle.

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The Northern Winds

By Ian Anthony Randall

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2018 Ian Anthony Randall
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3966-6

Contents

Part I: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 1, 
Part II: Vietnam: 1971, 11, 
Part III: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 57, 
Part IV: Chile: 1973, 67, 
Part V: Shell Beach, California: Present Day, 145, 

CHAPTER 1

PART I

Shell Beach, California: Present Day

"We know so much of wanting, and so little of having."

The priest looks out over a quiet ocean as he speaks. We're standing on the back portico of this seaside chapel and admiring the swirling pastels of dusk. The sun is setting in the distance, a crimson thread lining a placid sky.

"How do you overcome it?" I ask. "You've given up so much for this life. How do you keep from wanting more?"

He hesitates for a moment, then answers softly. "I don't. I want what I don't have, too."

"We have so much, but it's never enough," he continues. "We're all such predictable fools."

The young priest is too wise, and too sad, for his age. He reminds me of myself when I was a young man.

"I need to be on my way. Thank you, Father." I pick up my briefcase and walk toward the front gates. As I cross the vestibule and step into the dusk, his voice carries over the empty pews.

"God bless you."

I arrive home to a silent house. My wife, Hope, is visiting our oldest son's family and won't be back until late. I pour myself a drink — Dewar's on the rocks, my usual — and step onto the back porch. The night is dim and murky, and I can't help but think back to other lonely nights in my life:

The wide-open emptiness of Patagonia, where the stars were a million fireflies that illuminated the sky.

The slothful nights of Vietnam, where the jungle's creaks and whines drove you insane with fear, and made you realize there was good reason to be afraid.

A cold and violent night in Santiago, when a city was attacked from within, and the echoing gunfire nearly drowned out the cries of children.

And now, these languid nights on the California coast, part of this picturesque life that Hope and I have built. These nights are spent surveying an endless sea and seeing the faces of those left behind in the expansive darkness. There is no darkness like the open sea, where there are no beginnings and no endings. Only the steady lapping of the waves, forever.

* * *

I am sleeping, I think, but then I am thrashing, fighting an invisible enemy that is attacking me. I'm fighting for my life as Charlie's rough hands squeeze my throat, his cold feline eyes looking straight into mine.

I open my eyes. I feel the soft linen of bed sheets. I hear the gentle rustle of the waves.

And then I see Hope's terrified eyes, consumed with fear. Somehow, my hands have encircled her throat. She is crying and gagging. She is praying to God that I wake up. I let go of her neck and wrap my arms around her.

"Mi amor, I'm so sorry," I say, frantically hugging her, trying to undo what I've just done. "I'm so sorry. Te amo tanto. Te amo tanto." I'm saying it over and over again, chanting it like a mantra.

"Please forgive me," I finally say. Then I am quiet. We embrace like that for a while, rocking and holding each other tightly, knowing that words won't suffice. After a while she rests my head on her lap and strokes my thinning hair. I am crying softly, embarrassed but unable to hold back the tears.

When we finally lie down, we settle into contoured sides of the bed that have been molded after so many years together. We close our eyes. And then we reach out in the middle of the bed for the other's hand, as we've done so many thousands of nights before, a simple yet sacred ritual in this marriage. In the middle of the thundering stillness and the fear, we are still together. We cling to each other's hands. Hope falls back asleep and the rhythm of her breathing is calming, hypnotic.

But I still see their faces. My best friend. My twin brother. My mother. The woman I loved, before I was granted this unearned second act. I see their faces, and I know there will be no rest tonight.

* * *

Early morning is my favorite part of the day. I wake at the first whisper of daybreak, programmed to rise as the dawn begins its gentle bow over the Pacific. The morning chill is an old companion and together we press on, achy and arthritic, determined to overcome whatever may have passed in previous days and nights. Even for an old man with a patchwork of years to his name, this forgetting of the past is never-ending, a continual work in progress.

Early morning is also when my shoulder hurts the most. The pain is a dull and far-off emptiness, as if the bullet that ripped through it so many years ago left a permanent hole. In one side and clean out the other, a telescope tunnel that never got filled. Doctors tell me that it has long since filled up with scar tissue, but my body has never accepted the replacement parts — whatever filled the wound has been found wanting, intolerably fragile and damaged. It hurts most in the early morning, when all is silent, and again at night when the quiet returns.

Winding around the north side of our home is a rocky path that crests into a seaside cliff. Diving down the cliff is a billowing sand dune that slopes gracefully to the ocean and then disappears into the willowy fingers of the lapsing waves. Every day on my morning run I trek up the winding path to the cliff, enjoying a moment of shade underneath a grove of quaking aspens, and then catapult myself down the steep dune. As I run, my legs churn as fast as a fat old man's legs can to stay underneath the tumbling belly leading the way. And always, always, as sure as the morning sun will rise, a sprawling flock of seagulls awaits me. Without fail they are halfway down the dune, clucking and pecking and revealing no intention of ceding passage.

I know they see me. I know because each and every one of them cranes their neck and stares at me with beady eyes, marveling at the crazy old man hurtling at them. But of course, they don't move right away. They don't even move when I'm halfway down the dune and I'm sure that I'm going to slam into a wall of feathers and flapping wings. No, they just sit and watch, amused by the spectacle. Only when I am mere steps away from trampling some poor stupid seagull do they flee, the entire squawking flock lumbering upward to dodge the collision and then casting accusatory glances as I pass.

They do see me. They just don't understand the danger from afar, even if it should be as obvious to them as it is to me. With all my years, maybe I'm expecting too much. It wasn't always obvious to me.

For three wide- and wild-eyed young men who were sent to fight for their adopted country in 1971, we could see the most obvious dangers in our path. And for the most part, we managed to escape them. But the rest — I never imagined what would come next. Should I have steered us away from the perils beneath the surface and between the lines that maybe weren't as unknowable as I now tell myself? Should I have known that after fighting in Vietnam, going back home to Chile was just too simple? Too poetic? Maybe we had no way of seeing the danger ahead. Or maybe we saw it coming and just didn't know how to get out of the way.

* * *

There's a sweet old Vietnamese woman named Phuong who owns a liquor store near the beach — a store that I visit more often than I care to admit. Phuong always greets me with a smile and...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: AuthorHouse
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2018
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1546239669
• ISBN 13: 9781546239666
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 182
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: KreGa Onlinehandel GmbH; 4950000000000; info@krega-onlinehandel.de; ; Birkenweg 31; Brakel; 33034; Deutschland