TH[lMVHI~
Literary Advisors: Chairman:
Conrad Bayley
Marilyn Schiedat
Art and Production Advisor:
Mirta Hamilton
Editor: Mary Jane Spence-Green
Art Director: Gillian Conte
Literary Staff: Gail Hastings
Carolyn Levey
Howard Moses
Pauline Mounsey
Ann Mueller
Layout and Production: Rob Richards
IPat Stocking
IPerla Padilla
jD~~id Burkett
Cover Design: Pat Stocking
Printing: Runbeck & Associates
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Phoenix, Arizona 85302
The Traveler is published annually by Gee English and Art
Departments. Distributed free of charge to Gee students,
faculty, and friends.
Copyright: Volu me 13
© The Traveler, Gee 1980
6000 West Olive
Glendale, Arizona 85302
Special thanks to the English and Art Faculty
for their guidance and assistance.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 Traveling Through
2 literary and Art Awards
3 In Retrospect
Clay Pot
Whimsy
Softly, Softly
4 I have a coffee cup
Thanks, Dad
Thanks, Mom
5 When Morning Breaks
6 Life Within
Painted turtle
7 Be careful
Infinite sadness
9 The Poodle-Cat
10 Three Dimensional Art
11 Thinking about
12 Trifecta - George Cannataro
15 Storm and Calm
16 Akhilleus
17 Not Yet, the Winter
Spoilage
18 A Mature Woman's Return to Higher Education
19 Lonely Girls
20 The Charmer - Shirley Norris
26 Re-Birth
The Waiting Shore
27 Childhood Exteriors
Farewell
28 The Visits
On rainy days
29 Cape Cod
30 A Ballad to Clean Air
31 Necessary Repression
") Want to Talk to You, God."
32 limericks
33 The Earth
Thoughts on Others
That's My Job!
34 The Old man
Poem for Myself
35 The End of the World
Pagan Pirate's Prophecy
37 You've turned me like pages
TRAVELING THROUGH
LITERARY AND ART AWARDS--'
Poetry Awards
1st Prize: Helen Ehrlich: The Library, p.9
2nd Prize: Helen Baldwin: When Morning Breaks, p.5
Not Yet the Winter, p.17
3rd Prize: J. K. Evans: Akhilleus. p.16
Honorable Mention:
Pauline Mounsey: The Waiting Shore, p.26
Lisa Colcord: The Earth, p.33
Prose Awards:
1st Prize: Shirley Norris: The Charmer, p. 20
2nd Prize: George Cannataro: Trifecta, p.12
Best of Show: John Bluco, photograph for inside back cover, p.37
Photography Awards
1st Prize: Cathy Spann: photo for Lonely Girls, p. 19
2nd Prize: Dennis Hermann: photo for Cape Cod, p.29
3rd Prize: Tim Kopacz: photo for Childhood Exteriors, p.27
Honorable Mention
Cathy Span n: photo for The Alley Bu m, p.35
John Bluco: photo for Farewell, p.27
Bob Zit/au: photo for poem, p. 7
Art Awards:
1st Prize: '0. C. Emery: Thinking About You, p. 11
2nd Prize: Perla Padilla: Not Yet Winter, p.17
3rd Prize: Rob Richards: Trifecta, pp. 12 13 14
Honorable Mention:
Nessa Gale: I Ha"€ a Coffee Cup, p. 4
Bryce Olson: Life Within, p. 6
D. C. Emery: Necessary Repression, p.31
Literary Judges:
Ms. Frances Grandt
Dr. Harriet Herlihy
Mr. Robert Wilcox
Art and Photography Judges:
Mr. William Ahrendt
Mr. Willis Peterson
Ms. Janet Wandrey
The Traveler12
Photograph by John Bluco
.J
IN RETROSPECT
Alas, the night has come again once
more I lie in silence,
reflecting on the past gone by my
thoughts - my sole alliance.
It seems a thousand dreams ago through
each, I laughed and cried;
their memories within, remain
in which I lived and died.
On looking back in retrospect
the good outweighed the bad;
a bittersweet reflection of
a life both glad and sad.
At times life's so amusing of
this, I must confess;
one day you're up, the next you're down a
slap - a sweet caress.
Where in this world do I belong?
My quest I often ponder.
The answer seems so near, yet far once
found, I need not wander.
Dennis Herrmann
CLAY POT
An easy mental process
To sleep in dreams unreal
Whose characters possess
The motion of a potter's wheel.
They spin and dance and
Glide out of the mind
And like a golden band
Circle endlessly in time.
Carolyn Levey
WHIMSY
'Tis far better to kiss a toad,
Who does not become Prince Charming,
Than to kiss Prince Charming
And discover he's a toad.
Kay MacKeever
Softly, softly, like the wisp of a baby's breath
You entered my life
No trumpet blares, no drumroll
No Mormon Tabernacle Choir chorus
No Ed McMahan saying, "Heeeeeere's ... "
No tickertape parade
Just softly, unsuspectingly
Yet I knew of your arrival
And your appearance left me
With a memory thousands of times more lasting
Than any of these would have been
A sculptor could not have carved you
Any deeper than you already are in my heart
But have I arrived for you?
Linla Edelis
Illustration by Doris DuBose
The Traveler/3
The Traveler/4
Illustration by Nessa Gale
THANKS, DAD
Dad, I want to thank you
For all the cou ntless ti mes
You put down your newspaper
And listened to my rhymes.
For how you let me use your chair
Whenever you were gone,
And how you listened patiently
When I rambled on and on.
Thanks for all the country walks
And camping trips to lakes,
For pointing out the animals Deer
and birds and snakes.
For climbing mountains and hiking canyons
And sleeping under the night sky
And telling me the things you knew
Whenever I asked why.
Thanks for fixing bikes and cars
And helping with my math
And talking about my future
And what would be my path.
Most important, thanks for holding me
When I needed to be held
And for understanding how I saw my world
And all the things I felt.
Out of all the things in my life so far
Good, otherwise, or bad,
The one I am most thankful for
Is that you are my Dad.
Susan Lethem
I
Have a coffee cup
Of dreams
And
/t's filled to the brim.
Some were tried
Others died,
A few spilled over the rim.
For dreams that don't work
Or can't find a place,
I have sugar and cream
To cut the hiJrsh taste.
But sometimes it's just not enough.
For dreams die young in a coffee cup.
Jeff Cavanaugh
THANKS, MOM
Thanks for all the cookies, Mom,
Baked with such loving care.
Thanks for the times you tied my shoes
And when you brushed my hair.
Thanks for the times you laughed with me
And all those times we cried
And how, when I had a choice to make,
You helped me to decide.
Thanks for the times at the grocery store
When I wore your patience thin
By dawdling in the parking lot
While you waited to go in.
Thanks for putting up with me
When I wouldn't eat my peas,
And for understanding when I forgot
To thank you, or say please.
Thanks for all the sandwiches
Of peanut butter and honey
And all the times you helped me out
When I ran out of money.
Any time I needed someone
You were always there
And no matter how many years go by
I know you'll always care.
Someday that's how I want to be
And do that for my children too
And if I had one wish I'd choose
To be a Mom like you.
Susan Lethem
WHEN MORNING
BREAKS
When morning breaks will
it hold only regret
for the lost years
of being out of step
with the drummer within?
Will it hold only sorrow
for the loss of innocence
and self-esteem?
When morning breaks will
it hold promise
that I can direct
'lly own destiny?
Dissolving patterns
of self-defeat
that kept me roving
the nightime road
of nightmare days?
When morning breaks pregnant
with challenge
to break the mold
of numbing mediocrity to
spark the deadened eye
to nudge the sleeping soul
to walk the song
my drummer plays
Will I be ready -
when morning breaks?
Helen B. Baldwin
Ph"tograph by Steve Chernek
Illustration byGisele Desjardins
The Traveler/5
LIFE WITHIN
It's a world of cement, steel, and stone;
A world aloof, forlorn and alone.
It's a world with row on row of steel barred cells;
A world controlled by ringing bells.
It's a world devoid of trust. and filled with sin;
A world with angry men locked within.
It's a world of smashing fists and deadly knives;
A world with cold contempt for human lives.
Yet, it's a world, though buried deep;
Of tender hearts, and men who weep.
Michael D. Knoll
Illustration by Bryce Olson
-------~-------......
Painted turtle sleeps
basking in the warmth of sun
pondering winter.
Elaine Giambattista
The Traveler/6
Photograph by Bob Zitlau
INFINITE SADNESS
Infinite sadness ...
there forever
I can't hide it, it's there
So I build my wall again -
I build a wall to keep it in
Stronger this time, I believe -
But someone comes along
making me forget
And my wall is fragile like a bubble
which cannot stand against the
warm and friendly flow
When the flow ebbs away leaving my
defenses in shambles
I feel the sadness creeping out
But the warmth and friendliness flows
again, and again, and again,
Like the tide,
And again, and again, and again,
It reveals my infinite sadness ....
Susan Lethem
The Traveler17
Illustration by Dick Kelly
The Traveler/8
The
Poodle
Cat
For Mrs. Bonnie Nelson
and PI 101
If dogs are poodles
And poodles are cats,
Then what are birds and
Mice and rats?
Well, if they fly
At poodle-cats A
posteriori!
They must be bats!
Now, if rats are bats,
Then what is an imp?
Why, if he's not guilty,
He's innocent.
Aha! That's a priori You
see?
You must have
Philosophy -
To tempt an imp Or
trap a rat Or
pull the tale
Of the Poodle-Cat!
Helen Ehrlich
THE LIBRARY
Death, I have just exchanged wedding vows with Thee.
I am not made like the others,
who, with life, love,
laughter, strength, and faith
keep Thee at bay.
No, I am weak and faint,
and so, I, Defeatee, take Thee, Defeator,
for my lawful wedded husband.
It was not so with Thy brother, Thy twin,
whom Thou sent after me long years ago.
His name was insane,
but I laughed in his face
and ran from him
and cried, "Catch me if you can,"
and I outdistanced him
and left him, panting, by the wayside.
But I forgot myself and did not
watch where I was going
and so ran straight into your arms
and you held me fast.
Now I wear your wedding ring on my finger
and the black veil encircles my brow,
but I will not attend the wedding reception with you,
nor will I wait in the marriage bed alone for you.
No, I go to the Library,
and when you are finished wining and dining
with your friends
and the midnight hour approaches
and your breath grows hot for me,
you will have to come for me there.
But I warn you, be swift.
Leave your shadow without the door and
steal in like a thief and take me quickly,
for there is no existence for you within those walls.
That domain belongs to another -
His name is Life,
His name is Eternal,
His name is The Word -
No!
Cheat! Fraud!
No-conqueror, Thou!
I go to the Library!
Helen Ehrlich
The Traveler/9
Thinking about
How much i love you, i
Often forget the
Moments you
And i were
Strangers.
Lina Edelis
\ \ \ \ \
\ \ \ '
;
Illustration byD. C. Emery
The Traveler/11
TRIFECTA
George Cannataro
Illustrated by Rob Richards
PREFACE
As you know, writers often become immeshed in
words. As a potential writer and occasional sucker
at the horse races, I became intrigued with the
word "trifecta." In racing terminology, a trifecta
is a particular type of betting in which the bettor
must not only pick the winning horse but also the ~
second and third horses in the exact order in
which they finish. It is one of the toughest bets in
horse racing and is usually reserved for the last
race of an afternoon's program. While a bet on a
trifecta involves only a mere two dollar
investment, it usually also involves great
amounts of time, energy, sweat and luck in
choosing the three horses and their order offinish.
Understandably, the odds of winning such a bet
are very high so the purse is very large. However,
there are not many winners.
It occurred to this would-be writer that this term
and its meaning might be a good analogy for life.
We make many wagers in life pitting our time and
knowledge against the odds of succeeding.
Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. But often
we try for the big one, the trifecta of life; and just
like at the races, not many win the big one, and
The Traveler/12
when we lose the big one, it hurts. Not so much
because of the investment we lost, which is often
minimal, but because of the loss of what might
have been, a loss of the dream itself, a loss ofthe
ideal involved.
Another interesting thing about the word
trifecta is its form. "Tri" meaning three and
"fecta" the modified suffix of perfect - threeperfect.
Applying all this nonsense to a creative
endeavor, I decided I would write a perfect short
story with three characters each shooting for the
big trifecta in life and weave it together in the
scenario of a race track. Good, huh? Not so good.
The idea turns out to be too big for the vehicle of a
short story. It would need a novel to supply enough
detail and background on three characters
involved in making their big bets in life. Another
idea - write three perfect short stories with one
character each involved in his trifecta oflife with
a scenario of a race track and call it, instead of a
trilogy, trifecta. Well, not as good as the first idea,
but good enough.
Therefore, presented herewith, story number
one of TRIFECTA.
TRIFECTA
The sign on the table read, RESERVED FOR
MR. AND MRS. BENJAMIN ROSS. Catherine
Ross smiled at the irony ofthe little sign. Actually,
he was never here at the table with her. Mostly she
sat here alone and today was no exception. Ben, as
usual, was with his horses. He really didn't need to
be; it was just that they were important to him and
he preferred it that way. No matter, she didn't
mind; she understood. Owning race horses was
not just a hobby with Ben, it was his career, his
business and he was very successful at it. His
talent at breeding and training horses had made
him the most successful breeder at the track and
Catherine respected him for that. He had made her
life very comfortable and gave her everything she
wanted; so what ifshe was alone once in a while. It
was a small price to pay for all the security Ben
provided for her.
Catherine knew when she picked Ben to be her
husband that it might be like this but it was worth
the gamble. After her first husband had divorced
her, she was determined that she would only
marry for money the next time. Ben knew this was
why she had chosen him and he accepted it.
Catherine was 40 years old, but she took good care
of herself and was still very beautiful. To Ben that
was important. He liked being seen with her and
he liked showing her off to his friends. Sometimes
Catherine felt more like one of his horses than his
wife. But they had a good relationship; it was more
business than romance, but they respected one
another and they liked one another.
Lately though it bothered her being alone so
much, especially here at the track. The race track
had always been an exciting place for her. It was
not just the betting and the anticipation and
excitement of winning; it was the crowd and the
electricity it generated. It was the color and the
movement and the smells and sounds of the
grandstand. And, of course, there were the horses
whose speed and physical beauty gave her goose
bumps. She remembered the first time her
husband had brought her here and how thrilled
she was when she saw her first race. They had had
lots of fun here in those early days. Even later
when she came with Ben and he would show her
around the stables and together they would yell
and scream for his horses to win. Yes, the track
had always been a good place for her.
It was different now. She never sat in the
grandstands anymore. It was always here in the
clubhouse at their reserved table. She hardly even
bet anymore, only when Ben told her and then
only the horses he told her. She used to like to pick
her own horses even though she usually lost. That
~
IIII
i
; .
~\:'
\ .
\:
'.
The Traveler/13
was part of the fun of it. Now she just bet the
horses Ben picked. Ben never lost. Yet it was a
beautiful day and the next race was about to start.
Catherine was determined to enjoy herself. She
ordered a drink and opened her racing form. She
would pick a horse herself.
"Money in the Till" looked like the best best. It
had never come in less than third and in its last
three races, it had won going away. But she
decided not to bet the favorite this time. She would
take a chance on an out-of-town horse called
"Lusty Love." It was a long shot, but she bet fifty
dollars to win.
Catherine watched as the horses sped around
the track. She felt herself getting excited. The old
thrill made her nostalgic. Her memory flashed
stills of people and incidents that she thought
were gone from her mind forever. Her body felt
sensations she had almost forgot existed. She felt
an emptiness, a need. The horses were in the
stretch. Catherine's heart raced faster; her horse
was in the lead. Her lips parted and she heard a
voice she didn't recognize whisper, "C'mon Lusty
Love." The whisper became a moan, "C'mon
Lusty Love," then a scream, "C'mon Lusty Love!"
It was over; she lost. "Money in the Till" had
come on to beat "Lusty Love" by a half a length.
She stared for awhile at the empty track. Well, she
thought, that's what she gets for picking a long
shot.
Catherine gathered her things together. This
was the last race and she would have to leave now
to meet Ben at the stables. He had told her what to
bet on the last race. She walked up to the window
and asked for a $1000 trifecta on 8-6-2. As she
made her way past the grandstand, the last race
had started. The noise was loud, but it didn't affect
her. There was movement and color everywhere
but her eyes looked straight ahead. By the time she
had reached the ground floor, the horses had
crossed the finish line. Catherine walked past the
paddock and continued toward the stables.
Behind her, at the center of the track, the huge tote
board lit up displaying the winning trifecta
numbers, 8-6-2. Catherine never looked back. 0
The Traveler/14
AKH ILLEUS
To be a god and yet not deity,
Oh, ancient Phoenix, this shall be my due.
Fair? Unfair? The truth! I must contemplate
Beyond this man; the gods; the truth is fate.
For prophesies laid down upon my dawn
Have given me a cause to wonder, why?
I stand above all others, still, I see,
They are more blessed than I shall ever be.
For even those whose lot it is to die
Upon this bleak and bloody battle ground,
Know only, that there is some risk to take.
Their chance to live is equal to their loss.
I hold no hope that Zeus can stay my time,
For I must die in youth: A prophet's crime.
At yonder tent Odysseus is cleaning
The crimson remnants from his mighty spear.
There, plans his action for tomorrow's strife
And all the 'morrows of this battle's life.
He has no fated time to cause him grief.
He'll by his cunning, stay the deadly hand
And spend his aged days in his own land.
Look there, to Patroklos, my friend, sleeping.
He fights with honor and a fearless pride.
Dreams tonight of war and its vain glory,
He holds no sign to mark his day of death.
Sees no bones cast conceding his own fall.
He knows his armor's forged so he'll survive.
There is no fear when knowledge is deprived.
Even Hektor, villainous though he be,
May by some god's benevolence not feel
The throws of death induced by Akhaian steel.
Then with this conflict's end, he'll stand in grace
Beside his fair and dear Andromakhe,
To watch Astyankos grow to be a king.
This old man hearing glory's ancient ring.
Yet I, braver than brave Odysseus,
More valiant than my own near brother there,
Mightier than a tamer of horses,
Cannot, in ignorance, find any peace.
For I know well the time that I must end
and burnt limbs won't a god's indulgence buy.
The fates decree; I conquer and I die.
j. K. Evans
The Traveler/16
Illustration byD. C. Emery
NOT YET, THE WINTER
I The cloak of morning conceals
churning undercurrents
of a changing sea.
I contemplate
the fallen petals of my youth
as needles of wind
pierce my bleached bones.
Drifting, declining, growing old,
who will chart my flight
to nesting land?
II Smoky clouds have stolen
slivers of sunlight.
Pine trees huddle and whisper
as light rain falls, forming
little pearls of dew.
My footsteps are hollow echoes
searching
the way home from the wilderness.
Even the rain is lonely.
III Nippy frost crisps the air
as the scent of autumn creeps
into a window full of moon
and trembling shadows.
Though winds have stripped the
branches of their summer dreams,
I have just time enough
to weave one more song.
The crystal river of life
flows on.
Helen B. Baldwin
Illustration by Perla Gutierrez
SPOILAGE
Peaceful
silent
Moon
Disturbed
by a few
intruders
called astronauts.
Howard Moses
The Traveler/17
A MATURE WOMAN'S RETURN TO HIGHER EDUCATION
(OR, I'LL DO ANYTHING TO GET OUT OF CLEANING THE HOUSE)
I know you warned us of this test
A week or two ago at best,
But forgive me, sir, I cannot think;
There's dirty dishes in my sink
And dirty laundry lines the hall,
My kids are driving me up the wall
And my husband's no help, he's out of town.
(other people climb up, I just fall down.)
But you know, sir, I've not missed a class
(which really is something, with the price of gas ...)
The truth is, I'm not here to get an "A,"
I'm going to college to get away!
Flo Antinoro
Photograph by Cathy Spann
Photograph by Bob Zitlau
The Traveler/18
Photograph by Cathy Spann
LONELY GIRLS
Chocolate dreams, gone white with age.
Tracks of sorrow make their way
To angry flares, bursting to die.
Once were beacons, beckoning guides.
Then, soft and white, a painter's skin.
The canvas, gone, cracked and bleeding,
Behind a trunk in someone's attic.
He's long forgotten it is there.
Silver dreams have turned to fiber.
Tarnished by their long neglect.
The twilight adds another moment
To the years of emptiness.
J. K. Evans
The Traveler/19
Illustrated by David Burkett'
THE
CHARMER
By Shirley Norris
Mary came through the hotel doorway on the
arm of a young man, flinching at the street noises,
ignoring the smiling boys with their colorful
clothes and snowy turbans.
"How differently everything sounds now," she
murmured sadly, "so unlike the first day, when we
had just arrived." She could hear the solid thud of
taxi doors, people rushing, whistles, distant
shouts and the rumble of traffic from the wide
boulevards behind the complex.
"Bert was SQ happy. It was going to be our last
few days in India, you know ... How long ago was
it?" She looked doubtfully at her companion.
"Two weeks," he informed her gently, not for the
first time.
"Yes," she added, "I know that must be rignt,
but there is so much I don't seem to remember."
The low clouds and grey choppy waters of the
Arabian Sea told her it had just rained. The hot,
humid breeze filled her nostrils with the strong,
pungent spicy odor of Hindu life.
The young man paused on the edge of the wide
porch to make arrangements for a taxi to take
them to the airport. She looked out over the tops of
the cars in the porte coch"ere at the foot of the wide
marble stairs, across the street to the esplanade,
and the monumental granite arch which divided
the land from the sea. The Gateway to India, the
city of Bombay; covered by a perpetual haze from
the million dung fires that burned day and night.
Smoke, spice, and squalor.
Bert had said, "Every country has its own
special smell, just like peoples' houses, and of
them all India is the most intoxicating." The
memory of it reeled through her head like a
travelogue with pictures in a nonsensical
sequence.
Her eyes moved slowly from the arch down to
the low parapet which flanked the square, to the
hundred or more people that constantly moved
about over the flat area; it was never empty.
A prickling of her skin alerted her to a blue
figure. Was it possible? She studied it more
The Traveler/20
intently, quelling the beginning of outrage. She
turned to the young man, whispering something
into his ear. A frown of concern appeared on his
forehead, and he moved back in protest.
"Well, I don't know ... do you think you should?"
She shook her head, smiling reassuringly at
him, pressing his arm.
"I must do this. I must see her once again."
He hesitated a few moments, wavering
earnestly, then, reluctantly, he let her go.
Motivated by desperate anxiety, she crossed the
narrow street between the hotel driveway and the
edge of the esplanade where she stopped to catch
her breath, trying to get moisture back into her
mouth. Half consciously she continued, avoiding
patches of rotting vegetable matter and small
pools of water trapped in the flat areas ofthe huge
granite blocks, pushing her way through the
cacophany of jabbering hawkers until she was
very close. Again she stopped to catch her breath
- and watch.
Mrs. Plitt was with a handsome couple; the man
straining to hear every word she said, his wife
standing with her arms folded, listening with shy,
rapt attention. The woman was moving her arms
in that gracefully languid way, her delicate pink
fluttering hands occasionally touching the arm of
the girl, insinuating herself to their eager naivete.
They were clustered around the snake charmer
who was watching them carefully, understanding
very well that he was not yet the center of
attention. He had dealt with Mrs. Plitt many
times, and she always paid well when she brought
tourists to him. She asked him once for a special
favor, but he declined, not wishing to extend his
art to include those things which did not please
him at all.
Mary began to move closer, but faltered. She felt
that it was all beginning again, the same
malevolent ritual that so dreadfully abused the
participants. Her body sagged slightly as she
realized she didn't know what she was going to
say to the woman. Still confused, her mind began
a slow recollection of the events that had brought
her to this miserable end.
The mid-morning sun had filled the cool
pleasant hotel dining room with moving shadows
from the sea, the clinking crystal and silver gave
off little flashes of light as they were moved about.
Cooking odors were stirred through the air by
large slow-moving ceiling fans, intensifying the
purpose of those still waiting to be seated.
Perspiring waiters moved about silently and
efficiently, weaving around each other and those
who were leaving their tables.
A woman sitting alone by the window had been
carefully scrutinizing the people coming in, her
interest quickening when she saw Mary and Bert.
The waiter was summoned and shortly there were
three at her table instead of one. Introductions
were made with easy familiarity of those in a
foreign country who speak a common language.
Were they enjoying India? Where had they been;
what had they done? Ah, yes! The woman was
nodding and smiling, her eyes bright and sharp as
Mary extolled the sunrise at Benares, the Jain
Temple of Calcutta, the Caves of Ajanta, all the
wonderful sights. Mrs. Plitt responded to their
enthusiasm as though she were hearing it for the
first time, occasionally adding a bit of
information, and gradually dominating the
conversation with increasingly more unusual and
sometimes bizarre anecdotes of her own
expenence.
After the waiter had taken their orders, she
explained, "I was born and reared here. My father
was an American doctor who spent a good deal of
time in the rural areas."
It had been a difficult undertaking, mainly
because of the religion which was inextricably
bound to every aspect of life, creating conflict
between superstition and medical science. She
talked at length on this subject, which seemed to
Bert to have a rather repulsive side.
"What a wonderful man," Mary decided.
Mrs. Plitt didn't answer immediately. She was
moving her finger back and forth absently over a
spot of sunlight, as though she were trying to push
it into the shadows.
"He was bitten by a krait while we were in the
field. Everyone thought it had crawled into the
tent through a small hole in the side." It had been
a horrible death, which she described in no small
amount of detail.
"That's terrible," Mary commiserated, looking
appealingly at Bert. He had stopped eating.
She noticed with dismay that he had made a
sandwich by stuffing most of his eggs and
sausage between two slices of toast. How she
wished he wouldn't do that in public. Her eyes
flickered to Mrs. Plitt, hopeful that the gaucherie
had gone unnoticed.
What an interesting woman she was. Mary had
been unable to look away from her. She had a rare
type of elegance that is seldom seen anymore.
Certainly she stood apart from the rest of the
women in their bright polyester pants and
blouses. Her faultlessly tailored linen suit had
that soft sheen of natural fiber; its color, the pale
blue, brought out the smooth whiteness ofher skin
and the deep chestnut glow of the huge braid,
which she wore coiled around the top of her head
like a toque. And the magnificent jewel! So deep,
dark and cold! On any other woman it would have
been dominant, but Mrs. Plitt wore it as an
extension of herself; as though it were a part of
her, over her heart. Mary unconsciously touched
her own ordinary, but neat white waves, letting
her hand fall to rest near a somewhat dumpy
middle.
Mary leaned forward, assuming a confidential
tone, "Bert is a physicist. He's not in good health
at all; it's his heart, you know, and this trip has
been very hard on him."
She' offered all of this in hope it would grant
future absolution to his shortcoming as Mrs. Plitt
noticed them. Mary always thought that Bert was
too educated; lacking people versed in his field the
general conversation would eventually take a
The Traveler121
philosophical turn, frequently for the worse.
"You know, people don't like to talk if they have
to think, Bert," she had admonished.
The woman seemed very interested in Bert's
health - a further testimony to her unique charm.
"We really shouldn't have made this trip - it
will probably be our last - but Bert did want to see
India so badly, so we ..."
"Look!" Mrs. Plitt interrupted.
They leaned forward to see out the window to the
esplanade below. It was full of milling people; women
in red, purple, green and orange cholis, silk or
rough spun cotton saris; the men in faded trousers
of European origin or the favorite white dhotis of
the Bengalese. Vendors, entertainers with small
animals, baskets of fruits and vegetables, tourists
embarking dangerously heaving small boats for
the trip to Elephanta.
"N0, there! Here he comes." She indicated a
small wiry brown man making his way to the edge
of the crowd, hopping and waving his ropy arms
up at the window, then pointing to a covered
basket by his side.
"Why don't you be my guests for the rest of the
day? We can see the snake charmer, then, since it
is the last day of the Kali Puga, we could take a
short walk through the native quarters close to the
hotel. Everyone will be celebrating; there will be
music and dancing in the side streets. I promise it
will be the most exciting day you've ever had."
Bert didn't reply, but Mary became exuberant.
"We'd love it! Wouldn't we, Bert?" His concurrence
was not necessary.
"It would be more fun to go with you. One has to
be so careful about what one says around the
natives - besides, you never know what they
might do."
As they left the hotel Bert put on his old hat,
much to Mary's annoyance. Why did he have to
wear that scabby old thing? His thinning hair
could just as well be covered by something else.
Was it the only hat in the world? It was at least
forty years old because he had had it when they
were married. Each time they took a trip it erupted
from some elusive cache. She was embarrassed
when Mrs. Plitt regarded it with open amusement.
The snake charmer was waiting for them,
anxious to begin. He motioned to a child, who
moved forward shyly, covering the lower part of
her face with her hand. On her shoulder crouched
a leashed mongoose that had been running
nervously up and down her arm. The man sat
down, removed the lid from the basket and began
to play a small horn. The cobra sprung up and
began to sway. Bert moved in closer, but Mary
The Traveler122
:
~)o:
"
'.
;
".. ..
pulled him back, squealing that he was getting
too close.
Mrs. Plitt laughed. "He can't strike from that
position," she assured them, "he strikes
downward, like this!"
She rapped Bert sharply on the arm with two
fingers. Mary squealed again. The raucous
blatting sound of the horn ceased suddenly as the
man clamped the lid back on the basket. From
behind him he took a sack and shook out another
snake, which immediately began frantically
writhing in a desperate attempt to escape. By now
the mongoose had become uncontrollable. The
man took the leash and lowered the animal to the
ground.
It was over before Mary realized what was
happening. The bulbous pink eyes and clever nose
of the creature had led its snapping jaws to the illfated
victim, causing the whipping motion of the
snake to be now generated by the mongoose alone
as it shook and rent flesh. Biting and tearing, it
never let go as it worked its way down the length of
the near-lifeless body. The man raised the
mongoose into the air by its leash, the snake still
dangling from its mouth. The internal organs
were slipping out one by one onto the stones,
where they lay glistening in the sun like little
gems.
Mary turned to Mrs. Plitt with accusing
repugnance. "Aaggh! I didn't know he would kill
anything!" She was overcome with revulsion.
"But he didn't!" exclaimed the woman, "the
mongoose killed the snake."
"It's rather the same thing, isn't it?" Bert
pointed out quietly.
"Not at all," Mrs. Plitt defended. She decided
against arguing the matter, shrugging her
shoulders. "Death is inevitable. In India it is even
more so. There are the hunters and the hunted; the
mongoose senses death in the helplessness of the
snake." She moved away, starting back toward
the hotel.
"Come on," she chirrupped over her shoulder,
"don't let this spoil your day."
Bert turned to his wife, "There is something
about this woman that I don't like." He was
thinking about the last few bloody minutes of the
killing, how the woman had made a gesture with
her right hand, passing four fingers over the
thumb and quickly turning the whole palm up. It
was a movement that, for some reason he didn't
understand, filled him with unease.
Mary glared at him. "Bert, I can't imagine why
you don't like her. You'll have to admit she is
perfectly fascinating. We've never met anyone like
her before, and we're never likely to again. What
harm can there be in just going along with her for
a little while? Really, Bert, I've never understood
your preferences for people."
Mary turned away from him and increased her
walk with quick determination, following Mrs.
Plitt who had already crossed the street and was
headed around the hotel toward a narrow opening
between the buildings.
Bert trotted along in her wake, removing his hat
and wiping his head with a handerkerchiefheld in
a stubby, freckled hand. The heat was becoming
bothersome.
"I don't know what it is about her," he continued,
"I agree with everything you say about her, yet
there is something I can't put my finger on."
His distaste at the almost greedy way with
which the woman had regarded the escaped snake
organs had mingled with an awareness, a
coagulation of giddy apprehension that was
rising in himself.
They emerged together onto a wide dirt
pathway, flanked on both sides with vendors'
stalls. A jumble of handicrafts and junk were
heaped everywhere. It was a treasure trove of
glassy trash, fake brocades, intermittently
sprinkled with moulting, disgustingly foreign,
but somewhat familiar abominations of
taxidermy
Mrs. Plitt stopped before a stall, in the back of
which, hanging by paper clips threaded onto a
piece of string, were several ugly color prints.
"When I was a child, my father took me with
him to a hut in one of the villages. When we
arrived there, an old man was sitting outside
interpreting directions from a holy book to the
midwives inside. They were already preparing the
The Traveler/23
fire to be put on the confined woman in hopes of
placating the power of the deity. The room was
filled with smoke from herbs that had been thrown
on a fire in the corner."
She stopped speaking, lost in some grim
reflection. Mary and Bert exchanged glances,
waiting for her to continue.
"My father began to argue with them. And what
will the fire do to the patient? If she lives she will
have a bad scar, was the reply. If she dies it is her
karma."
Mrs. Plitt remembered her father's fury. He threw
out the filthy hags with their primitive, rusty
instruments. It was an animal den; the
atmosphere was stifling with heat and
unspeakable odors. She watched her father sit
down to gain his composure, panting and wiping
tears from his eyes.
"Uhhh ..." Mary murmured, "It's hard to
believe!"
The woman smiled, "Kali IS the most
bloodthirsty of all the Hindu deity
manifestations." She gestured to the prints.
In that dreadful place she had looked around the
room, into the darkness, and was transformed by
her latent, inherent inclinations. For the first time
she reached out and touched her own spirit; she
hated her father for not letting them build the fire
on the woman's stomach. Why did he never
understand anything?
"Well, what happened?" Bert demanded.
"My father threw them out," she replied simply.
Bert knew the story wasn't finished, but he was
hesitant to press her further; he was becoming
more uncomfortable with the heat and anxious to
move on. Mary had begun to worry about the
paleness that had replaced his usually florid
complexion.
Mrs. Plitt began to walk more quickly. The thin
layer of powdery dust that covered the ground
seemed incongruous with their sticky bodies. They
hurried through the grim labyrinth of tiny
passageways between leaning, ramshackle
buildings.
The Traveler124
Mary lost all sense of direction, watching her
feet, avoiding the hard uneven ridges left in the
ground from the many carts that had travelled
there during the time when it was mud. They had
made several turns, accompanied by the waxing
and waning of the discordant music that always
seemed to be just around the corner.
Why had she brought them here? Bert
wondered. The whole place seemed eerily deserted
even though sounds of voices and laughter could
be heard coming always from somewhere else.
"Where is everybody?" he asked.
"They have been drawn out to the various
booths on some of the corners. That's where the
music and voices are coming from," Mrs. Plitt
explained. "We'll see them shortly."
Again the woman moved just ahead of them,
forestalling any questions. Mary and Bert had
moved closer together seeking support of each
other against the uneven footing.
"Bert! Look!" Mary stopped to point out a small
dark shed, in the back of which there appeared an
undulating mass of some furry, squeaking things.
"Rats," Bert murmured as he watched them
crawling over each other in the quick
purposefulness of feeding.
"Oh, Bert. This is ... awful- I want to go back."
"I think we should," Bert agreed. Some of the
bolder rat~ were sitting on little scatterings of
garbage, watching them with disinterest.
Mary had begun fanning her blouse against her
body. "I don't think I can take much more of this
sun; what do you feel about it?"
Bert's hat band was soaked. "I've about had
it, too," he answered with weak disgust.
In response to a creaking noise he looked
between two of the sheds to the next street. A cow
wearing a crown of flowers was pulling a rickety
wooden cart. Shadows cast by the huge wheels
flickered in the dense, humid atmosphere. To Bert
it seemed that everything was moving in the
wrong direction.
Inside the cart was a statue ofKali, the hideous
blue doll with a long red tongue that curled down
under her chin; kohl-blackened eyes winked out at
him from between the slats in the side. The lurching
gave her a semblance of life. She struggled to be
free - watching him all the while. Three of the
arms waved menacingly; while the fourth, broken
but held together loosely by bits of straw and clay,
rocked back and forth wildly, the dagger in its
hand thrusting viciously at the air.
Mrs. Plitt had turned around, and seeing that
they were not following, retraced her direction
until she stood by their sides.
"Well," she smiled, but this time it seemed to
Bert that her lips moved independently of each
other, "the heat is too much, I see. There is a
building just a little ways down there. I suggest we
go where you can get out ofthe sun while I go and
find us something to drink."
"Yes, I think we had better do that," Mary
agreed, now really worried about Bert.
They hurried on until they came to the wooden
shack, where Mrs. Plitt indicated they should step
inside. They crossed the line from the sunlight into
the darkness, moving toward the back to get out of
the glare. As their eyes became more accustomed to
the dark they saw it was empty. They turned
around just in time to see the flash of her lovely
hand as she threw shut the door. They heard a
grating noise as the bar was secured in place on
the outside.
"What's she doing?" Mary cried furiously.
"Bert?" Bert still had the picture of Mrs. Plitt's
hand, in its variety of expressive movements,
particularly the one that had filled him with
unease; and the spirit leaves the body,
remembered from an explanation of dance
mannerisms. He could picture her now, out there,
turning her palm up.
"She's locked us in here," Bert replied quietly, "I
think she means to leave us in here."
"Whatever for?" demanded Mary. "Why, she
must be crazy."
Bert didn't answer. He was testing the walls
for a possible weak spot through which they
could escape. In this heat it wouldn't take long.
They had to get out.
"Bert! What are you doing? Don't sit down!"
Thoughts of being on the ground in this place
filled her with nausea.
"I have ... to sit ... down," he replied slowly. "I've
lost all my strength."
Mary began frantically going around the walls.
Some light filtered in through the cracks between
the wooden boards, but not enough to carry into
the center of the room, and not large enough to see
through.
"Oh, Lord ... well ... now what ...1> Her voice
trailed off as she sat down beside him in the black
dirt. Her head seemed to be getting bigger and her
skin was on fire.
"What are we going to do, Bert? - Bert?"
Bert didn't answer.
A rustling noise from the corner brought a more
immediate dread. She clutched him as something
brushed against her arm, but it was only the hat
that had slipped from his head as he fell over
against her.
She awakened in a cool, white room peppered by
anxious faces. Glancing quickly from the doctor
who held her wrist to a young man who held her
hand, she struggled apprehensively to see Bert;
but it was her nephew who stood there watching
I her sadly.
"What ... about ... about ... Bert?" She forced
the question in a whisper.
The nephew made an awkward gesture,
reluctantly referring to a small sealed jar in his
suitcase.
This time when she closed her eyes she
welcomed the darkness.
The police had been very kind. What woman?
No. No. Noone had seen any woman. It was all an
unfortunate accident. She was barely alive when
they found her several hours later. The door had
blown shut. It was all too unfortunate. Yes, they
had sent for her next of kin. No, there was no
woman that they could find, no one in Bombay
with that name. Rest now.
She had rested, was now fully alive and vibrant
with hatred as she stood once more by this noxious
creature. The possibility of a reasonable
explanation had been swept away by a tide of
loathing.
Mary pushed her way into the center of the
group, ignoring the couple and the snake charmer,
until she was facing Mrs. Plitt.
"I wanted to see you again ... I wanted to see you
again," her voice shook pathetically.
The woman, suppressing her irritatioq at this
intrusion, stared coldly at Mary. Who was this
person?
"I'm sorry. But if we've met - I really don't
remember it." 0
The Traveler/25
Illustration by Anita Steele
The Traveler/26
RE-BIRTH
Grains of sand
Acts of commission
Sorry words and deeds
Ideals forsaken.
Shifting sand
Sins of omission
Surrendered aspirations
Chances never taken.
Sand of time
Acts of contrition
New beginnings
undertaken.
Helen B. Baldwin
THE WAITING SHORE
Emotion clings to the curl of a wave;
Boiling,
Seething;
Lifting to the heights;
Only to plummet To
the depths.
Subjects itself to empty calm;
Then gently drifts -
To caress the waiting shore.
Pauline Mounsey
CHILDHOOD EXTERIORS
The roads seemed longer than before,
But I am just a visitor
To my childhood exterior.
The tree that held our hiding place
Has taken on a different face -
Its branches closed in an embrace.
The yard where I would spin my dreams
Beneath the scattered gold moonbeams
Has to this woman lost its esteem.
The windows, from which I once did peer
Unfortunately are dusty and unclear,
Stained by time, seem so severe.
The two car driveway, cracked and crazed,
Leaves me utterly struck and amazed
When I recall it shined and glazed.
The vine that grew to shade the drive,
That brought the bee out from the hive,
Quite foolishly did not survive.
The same old mailbox on its rusty stand
Could use a man with brush in hand
To make it speak out loud and grand.
The house, it doesn't seem so immense
And cannot fight for its defense -
So, sits alone in innocence.
Yet, this old place is still my friend
And I would stand up to defend
Its right to life up to the end.
Carolyn Levey
Photograph by Tim Kopacz
Photograph by John Bluco
The Traveler127
THE VISITS
I quietly approached
the crib in which she slept,
then to my knees I fell
and silently I wept.
It seemed as only yesterday
I held her so sublime;
but now my arms are empty of
this Blessing that was mine.
Her sweet angelic face
with skin so soft and fair,
her "visits" I shall cherish
in each and every prayer.
One day we'll be together,
I'm sure it's meant to be
when our little "visits" last,
and last for all eternity.
Dennis Herrmann
Photograph by Tim Kopacz
Photograph by Cathy Spann
The Traveler/28
CAPE COD
Holy water;
Infinite power.
Raging roar of ocean wave
Clawing at the rocky beach.
Crashing on to barren stone.
New England days, bleak and raw.
I walk exploring mystery caves
Endless shoreline, scent of salt.
Biting wind and I, alone.
The sea ignores me as I walk.
It has no need for me to bear
Witness to its ceaseless song,
I ts dance against the driving gale.
Holy water;
Halo foam;
Unconcerned that I am there.
Existence is its own reward,
For gods require no approval.
J. K. Evans
Photograph by Dennis Herrmann .-
The Traveler/29
NECESSARY REPRESSION
Illustration by D. C. Emery
No one would understand
my fantasy of fast ships
and green women, of worlds
beyond our vocabulary,
of beating light in a race,
and making rips in the
clothes of many universes.
No one would understand
my fantasy of wars fought
with the mind, of being
trapped in a place which
doesn't exist, of being
known by races that aren't
even human, but are better.
Noone would understand
my fantasy of being in an
infinite number of places
at the same time, of talking
to people who aren't really
there, and them talking
back to me, in here.
Noone would understand So
I'll keep it to myself.
Howard Moses
-..
't~':~"';
\~~\:~.-.~.~~\\~ - {ld"~
"-, \.. I'.Y""
\ '
Illustration by Rovena Quaintance
"I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, GOD.
DON'T PUT ME ON HOLD"
Well, it's gone full circle,
Like it was predicted,
My daughter is just like my mom.
Dear God, upon me what have you inflicted?
I can't carryon with aplomb,
Coping with mother and daughter, fussbudgets, both,
I can't take it, I tell you, they're stunting my growth!
You know I'm laid back, that I like to be free,
What have I done for You to do this to me?
Ah, I've got it now, you benevolent fellow!
You'll give me a grandchild, like me, she'll be mellow.
THEY can sit and be picky and wrinkle their noses,
My granddaughter and I will sow oats and smell roses.
They'll be MORTIFIED, (they're so sanctimonious and formal)
To see both of us, living lives so abnormal.
We'll let our hair down, my granddaughter and me!
But could you hurry up, God? I need company.
Flo Antinoro
The Traveler/31
There once lived a musical fella
who demanded to sing a capella.
His crooning was bad,
still he gave all he had,
but he just couldn't make it sound mella.
Elaine Giambattista
If tears were diamonds
And if poverty were gold
Many would prosper.
Angelion NeSmith
Illustration by David Burkett
An inebrious fellow named Fred
kept a bottle of booze near his bed.
As he tucked and he nipped,
Fred fell out of his kip,
leaving Fred with the stead on his head.
Elaine Giambattista
Preposterous as it may seem.
writing limericks in the obscene
is a plebian trait
leaving one in a state
of desiring to read one that's clean!
Elaine Giambattista
The Traveler/32
Mephistopheles' fiendish delight
was to challenge all things that were right.
He oppressed deeds divine,
but went over the line
when he queried celestial might.
Elaine Giambattista
When the last whale spouts
All mankind will be showered
With a deadly mist.
Pat Fiebig
THE EARTH
The rain is making love to me;
gently, softly bringing me sweet ecstasy.
My body nurtures
fresh life:
verdant grass,
lush jungles,
virgin forests,
iridescent meadows of scented flowers.
The rain leaves me
to raise his children.
When they die,
he will weep
and make tender love to me again.
THOUGHTS ON OTHERS
How sad the day when your life is leaving,
the pulsating heart is tired.
Not for the life fading away,
nor the heart soon to retire.
The sadness comes another way,
from a place lying deep within;
To have never loved with all your heart,
nor have the chance again.
Nancy Pena
.I '. :'••��• o._~
Lisa Colcord
THAT'S MY JOB:!
Just say that
I do windows:
I wash them
With my tears,
Then polish
With a bit of love
Until the
sun appears!
Helen Ehrlich
, "
'"
Illustration by Perla Gutierrez
The Traveler/33
THE OLDMAN
The sun beat down like fire beads
of sweat rolled from his brow;
still, the Old Man kept his pace
behind his mule and ancient plow.
With an agonizing stride
he moved as if possessed,
with a hard and driving force
never stopping once to rest.
Through this parched and ruthless wasteland
of desert, rock, and sand
tred this solitary figure
tilling dusty, worthless land.
Transfixed, I watched him toil
from morning until dusk;
as I turned to leave, I asked myself "
Approach him? Yes, I must!"
POEM FOR MYSELF
I walk along
kicking shadows out of my path
as I let the sun shower me with solace.
No shadows
must darken my mood.
Mysteriously,
sorrow does not master me,
since you left.
I am relieved.
My soul is dancing;
I am free.
Lisa Colcord
The Traveler/34
The closer that I came Careful
not to make a sound,
I saw the Old Man smile at me
then, crumple to the ground.
The strangest feeling swept across me
while he lay there in the sun,
as though he almost missed a deadline
against time - and barely won.
It's been months since last I saw him The
land is still and quiet now;
the only mark of his existence
stands this old and rusting plow.
What pushed him ever onward?
Looking down, the only clue On
the very spot he fell,
a bright, but lonely flower grew.
Dennis Herrmann
Photograph by Bob Zitlau
THE ALLEY BUM ....
Photograph by Cathy Spann
The alley bum is on the stroll
But only in the dark.
His aged gait is a slow crawl
On sidewalks in the park.
His aching bones will settle soon
Upon a slatted bench
And underneath the midnight moon
His fist can now unclench.
He tips his hat onto his face
To shut out the street lamp
And there in that immortal place
The alley bum will camp.
Quite unimpressed with night sounds,
His lone yearnings relax.
His mind rides on its daytime rounds
As he covers his tracks.
He found a bright new scarf today,
Piled under some trash,
Like a kind soul, gave it away
In trade for day old hash.
Now stomach full, his skin, his bones
Unleashed the starving pain
And leaves only his mind to moan
Thin waves across his brain.
The alley bum is left to dream;
His amorous delights,
Amaze the overwhelming scene
That's shaped by the night.
A perfume closes round his head,
Silk threads brush by his cheek
And from the comforts of his bed
An eye must take a peek.
She's off to greet another man,
Striding by with such zeal.
The alley bum can feel her hand
And hear his own heart squeal.
But when she's gone, he sets aside
The beauty of her frame
And back to his slumber to hide,
He'll playa lover's game.
Carolyn Levey
The Traveler/35
THE END OF THE WORLD
from the sky?
the sun blazing, melting, destroying
but only for moments, then it all would
be over.
from the sea?
great waves sweeping, crushing, engulfing
that would take longer.
Or, all of these things?
blazing, melting, destroying;
sweeping, crushing, engulfing
MAN.
D. Nevin Lambert
PAGAN PIRATE'S PROPHECY
Aye, come along mates let's sing a jolly song,
And hoist the flag of no nation!
Sing, and drink we will, to an outlaw's freedom.
Of woman's lust were we born and in right shall mother Ishtar be,
When she hugs our carcass in the bosom of the sea.
Better to die wild and young than to be bound,
Like a virgin slave from the Orient.
Never to strangle, old and sick,
Bound only to blond maidens in Mag Mel.
Virgin Mary, I confess 'twas I who held the stern when Sinbad sinned.
While Christians slayed "savages" bearing gifts and corn.
It was I who bore slaves to Jamaica from Elizabeth the Queen,
And as for Victoria, I toast to the whore!
Sing on, my lad, for the ships of the Sheik stock barrels of
Precious oil,
Paid for by the shimmering sweat of peasants' toil.
The "Empress" sails from Egypt with fine gems,
Bought with the gold of miners' veins.
With musket we'll rob and with cutlass we buccaneers bold;
Will quench the stench of hostages in the hold.
Heavily laden gold galleons await, with naught but scurvy crew
For Davie's jaws!
Cursed be your land when the shore foam stinks and the
Mating of the whale is heard no more.
Like Atlantis of old, she will sink into the depths of a
Scorching sea.
For from skull and crossbones shall none be spared!
Not even the hosts of the Heavenly hag,
Whose whip is the very stars.
Michael Newton
•
Photograph by John Bluco
You've
Turned me
Like pages
And
Read my every line
And
Dog-eared
Parts you liked the best
You've lived inside my mind.
I
Hope that I'm that interesting
You
Can't seem to put me down.
I guess
I must be
Different
Than the others that you've found.
And
If you keep on reading
'till you finally reach the end,
I hope you'll want to pick me up ...
And read me over again.
Jeff Cavanaugh
The Traveler/3?
