Burning Woman and the Ghost Lance
Chapter 5

Statement of the prisoner, Dr. Tlatlasihuatl. January 17, 1993 CY

1985 was a good year to be traveling, as it turned out. The world was between wars, and trade and tourism were rampant. We stopped at many ports, and each was a new experience. However, there were also many days at sea with little to do except look out over the endless horizon. Boredom set in quickly, which has always been my weakness.

Chantico, the little sister of fire, called to me. I had to answer.

I had studied the work of various local scientists while I was in Marsilya, and had familiarized myself with their designs for flooded carbon-zinc and lead-acid accumulators. I was already familiar with the standard voltaic pile, which was simply a stack of alternating plates of zinc and copper separated by a salt-water solution, the design of which has been in existence for almost a hundred years.

At Port Said, just before the Suez Canal, I dressed myself as a local -- in those days the women of Egypt, as part of the new, progressive Ottoman Empire in those happier times, typically wore white cotton blouses, trim tights, and heavy red sashes around their waists. Dressed thus, I was confident no one could pick me out from the crowd.

I was still young then, having just turned thirty-one. I didn’t yet understand what it meant to care about politics, but everywhere in the street I sensed a tension. Even the metals sellers whom I visited, usually at ease with their riches, seemed nervous, as if everything could be taken away in a flash. I began to feel that tension, as though peace were a fragile thing that never stayed unbroken for long. At the time, I was preoccupied with my own plans and the anticipated thrill of scientific experimentation. It was only later that my thoughts would return to see those troubled faces on the streets of Port Said, realizing after the fact that they understood something I had missed.

I exchanged some of my skills with chemistry for a number of thin sheets of copper and zinc, as well as some copper wire. Not sure why anyone needed a distillery in a dry country, but I was not going to question their need.

After returning to my cabin with my treasures, I constructed a simple voltaic pile in a barrel of seawater. I wrapped the barrel in a thick blanket of cork, to insulate it against electrical leakage.

Having a source of electricity made the remainder of the journey much more interesting. I had decided that carbon-arc lamps were far too dangerous, so I played with various types of carbon-filament lamps in sealed glass containers. I had a number of gallon-sized glass jars from the galley that would serve the purpose, and a vacuum pump was available in the engine room. Finding a filament that would last longer than an hour proved to be a time-consuming exercise in frustration, but after a week of tests, I found that a simple cotton thread, when carefully carbonized, remained lit for more than 48 hours before burning out. It was a pleasure to read beneath a non-flickering light source, and I continued to refine the process until I had extended the lifetime of the lamp to seven days of continuous use.

This was longer than the discharge cycle of my voltaic pile, and I was forced to construct a second and third pile, so I could keep at least two in the circuit while I recharged the other by refilling it with fresh seawater. This was easy enough to do while at sea, but my mind began to work the problem of recharging the pile on dry land. Many scientists had been tackling the concept of “dry” cells – sealed accumulators that could be recharged without adding or changing electrolyte. Perhaps a sealed version of the carbon-zinc cell, I thought, using an electrolytic paste instead of a liquid. I began to draw up various design ideas.

I borrowed some materials from the ship’s stores to put together a prototype dry accumulator. As with the barrels, I sealed the connections with tar and wrapped the thing in cork from a life preserver. Altogether it was roughly the size of a gallon can of paint.

Being thus entertained, I had failed to notice the increased rolling motion of the ship, and the noise of the storm that became apparent over the churning of the steam engine.

Then I heard the yelling of the crew on the deck above. I remembered that we were on the long final leg of our journey, which involved several days without a single port stop, crossing a stretch of the Indian Ocean. I set down my quill and picked up the lamp from the table. I had given the dry accumulator a long insulated wire connecting it to the lamp, as well as a bucket-like handle so I could carry it with me as I moved about the small cabin.

Thus, carrying the lamp in one hand and the accumulator in the other, I went topside to see what was happening to the ship. The deck was awash, and the wind was difficult to stand against. A crewmember saw me and ordered me back to my cabin. I asked if there was danger, to which he replied that the monsoons had come early this year, which is why I should remain in my cabin while they rode it out. Later I discovered that this was not a monsoon, which was just a heavy rain, but a cyclone.

Then I saw the wave.

It hung in the sky like a wall. A mountain of seawater towering over a ship that had seemed so large in port, but now was so tiny in comparison. It almost didn’t seem to be moving at all, and then it fell on us. The Yellow Pearl crashed into the wave head-on, and I was swept overboard, still holding the lamp and accumulator. I gripped them tightly, for one was a hollow glass jar, while the other was wrapped in cork. This was indeed fortunate, for together they preserved me against the crushing might of the sea.

At first, I was not sure I was buoyant enough to stay afloat. Holding my breath seemed to be a doomed enterprise, tossed and tumbled in the endless sea for what seemed like hours, but then I broke the surface and could take in air. The storm raged about me, and could feel my body rising and falling with each huge wave.

I looked around, but it was too dark beyond the radius of the lamp to see much of anything. I had no hope that the ship could see me in this turmoil.

I thought about the wave that had washed over the ship when I ended up in the water. Could the water have reached the boiler and caused an explosion? If so, then being in the water at the time may have saved my life, for such an explosion would surely have destroyed the ship.

Through the night the cyclone became a tropical storm, then finally faded to a light rain just before the first morning of my time spent as flotsam, and with the rising of the sun, the sky cleared. I clung to the lamp, which continued to provide warmth, light, and buoyancy. The accumulator could travel no farther than the wire allowed, so I let it drift.

However, my vantage point in the water was too low to see the horizon except at the very crest of a large wave. All I could see in any direction were scattered bits of wreckage that remained afloat and had ridden out the storm with me, and I knew that the Yellow Pearl had died a violent death.

I mourned for her and her valiant crew. I had spent over four weeks in their care, and they had undertaken their duty well to the very end. Death is something my people take for granted as a part of daily life, and our religion teaches us to rejoice in death as a gift of the gods. However, I was not, nor am I to this day, a very religious woman, and I have learned to care about the lives of people throughout the course of my travels, more than their deaths.

The first day I attempted to gather whatever floating remains of the shipwreck I could, to form some kind of raft or platform. It would have been nice to get out of the water to dry off, if nothing else. Alas, I found nothing large enough that could support my weight. The best discovery was a colorful bamboo and silk parasol that kept the sun off me for the rest of the day.

The following night the sea was dead calm. I saw fins and sleek forms swimming about me, but they kept their distance from the light I still held. They seemed like curious pedestrians stopping to examine their very first electric street light.

On the second day I continued to search for something that would help me survive. However, the currents had scattered the wreckage by then, and there was little left.

That night was a bad one. The sleek shapes dared to come closer. I felt one brush past me then dart away from the light. I had a glimpse of an eye as dead as a statue, and rows of teeth like spikes. The skin was like sandpaper, and my own skin was lightly abraded by our brief contact. I felt grateful that no blood had been drawn.

Captain’s log. January 17, 1993 CY

The sinking of the civilian cargo ship Yellow Pearl in the Indian Ocean may have been reported, or at least the vessel may have been reported missing. Confirming this may help corroborate the prisoner’s story. Something to check into when we return to port.