The English Major
by Charles C. Cole
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The story began in the very late 1970s, when long-distance communication was slow. Out of sight, out of mind. A letter from one side of the globe to the other could easily take a week. Few people phoned from one country to another. The world was big and promised adventures into the unknown: contrasting cultures, unexpected foods, different forms of government.
Kipling “Kip” Farr had plans to see it all. After spending four years at an oppressive preparatory school then another four years at the college of his father’s choosing, majoring in English for his first love and minoring in economics for his tuition-paying dad, Kip had “earned” his year abroad: London, Paris, Rome, Alexandria. At night, lots of drinking and socializing. In the bright light of day, lots of lying in the grass reading a new-to-him used paperback, usually an anthology of short stories. There was no rush: he had all the time in the world.
Kip was attending a rooftop bar a little before dusk, khaki backpack at his feet, running both hands through his shoulder-length hair, looking at and listening to the civilization all around him, the inner workings of Alexandria. Not far behind him someone laughed like a classic Santa: “Ho, ho, ho.” It was a little louder than most of the murmuring conversations, like “Look at me” loud. Okay, you have my attention, thought Kip, turning away from the city. Make it worth it, Mr. Garrulous Extrovert.
The owner of the laugh appeared for all the world like a Texas businessman: bright white cowboy hat, denim jacket with yoke, black bolo tie held together by a big chunk of mottled turquoise, with that take-me-as-I-am, warts and all veiny matrix. And he wore those distinctive sunglasses you could hinge up, like the headlights of a Porsche 914. He and Kip made eye contact, two Americans trying to act unique in a sea of foreign faces, spotting the only competition. Kip put his coffee cup down and prepared to leave before the eventual pissing match: I’m more exotic than you.
The man was fiftyish, Kip’s father’s age, with a long moustache that covered most of his mouth, surrounded by two pretty young girls who giggled at every built-in pause after every one of his colorful anecdotes. Like the stranger, they were probably there to be noticed, appreciated and for the free drinks. Kip sidestepped around the table and headed for the exit.
“Whoa there, young stallion,” called the man. “You’re American, aren’t you? I know one when I see one. Don’t rush off, unless you have somewhere to be.”
“Four’s a crowd,” said Kip.
“Not to worry: they’re ready to move on. Aren’t you, girls? No more free drinks: this bar’s closed. Thanks for making an old recluse feel like the life of the party. Shoo now.”
After a brief look of confusion, the women took their half-empty glasses and moved on. They were making small talk with other men before they’d gone three tables away.
“Please, sit,” said the stranger, gesturing to a newly opened seat. “Name’s Hiram Phelps.”
“Kip Farr.” They didn’t shake — just a brief nod — though there was a slight urge. Maybe because people didn’t do that here.
“What brings you to this part of the world, Kip?”
“My father has plans for me, always had — a guaranteed position in the family firm — so I asked for the perfect college graduation present: one year on my own, to finally see the world, before they chain me to a desk for the rest of my life.”
“So, to lose yourself for a while?” asked Phelps.
“Or maybe find myself,” said Kip, a little defensive. “What about you?”
“Just a businessman who can fly a plane, a glorified truck driver. People in the boondocks need things delivered where roads are iffy and robbers certain. And there’s something about seeing a plane landing in a backwoods village, like the carny’s in town. There’s always an excited crowd who run out to see the lighter-than-air miracle machine. I feel like Albert Schweitzer being welcomed by a leper colony.”
“But you’re really the mailman,” said Kip, a little more blunt than intended.
“Don’t tell my fans. To them, I’m the closest they’ll get to a celebrity. So, sometimes, I act the larger-than-life part: invite pretty women to my table for the price of a few rounds of free drinks. And maybe make an ass of myself in the process.”
“I don’t judge,” said Kip. Admitting: “Maybe a little.”
“What about you?” asked Phelps. “What brings you to Alexandria?”
“I like books. I heard Alexandria had the largest library in the world. Unfortunately, they closed their doors back in the 5th century. I figured I’d pay my respects.”
“How long have you been on the road?”
“Five weeks and counting,” said Kip.
“Ever been to Algiers?”
“Not yet. Do they have a library? Is it far?”
“Far enough, but worth it. I’ve got to make a drop, leaving tonight, and I need company. My ass is tired. I notice you’ve been drinking local coffee.”
“My drug of choice.”
“You come along, and I promise to swing by Algiers; you’ll love it. What do you say?”
“When would we go?” asked Kip, unexpectedly interested.
“Tonight. Now.”
Algiers had not been in the travel plans, but neither had a private plane. “Okay. I’m in.”
“You need to check out of your hostel? Pack your stuff?”
“I travel light. Have to. In case anyone ever offers me a flight on a private jet.”
“Did I say jet? No, no luxuries. Cessna Super Cargomaster. It gets me where I’m going. It beats walking or camels or trains. On to Algiers, but first we have a package to deliver.”
* * *
On the flight, they talked for hours. Kip mostly listened. The stars made up for the darkness, being a moonless night. Kip had never seen so many. The sky was covered with a rippling net made out of supernatural glitter, just beyond reach. Then he was being roughly awoken, slapped on his left shoulder by Phelps in the unexpected light of pre-dawn.
“Brace yourself, pardner. We’re going down,” said Phelps.
“Are we there already?”
“No, but we’re nearly out of fuel. The gauge is broken except when the tank is almost empty — it’s a long story. I told those guys back in Alexandria to top it off. They probably took one look at the gauge and thought I was crazy. Never trust the help. Anyway, I saw a private landing field. We touch down, explain our emergency situation, refuel, and are back in the air before you can say, ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’ I’ve done it before. Like I said, the humble terrestrials give us fancy flyers a lot of latitude.”
“Should we get on the radio, let them know we’re on approach?” asked Kip.
“Listen to the newbie. No, it’s a grassy field; there’s no air traffic control, nobody to consult. We’ll be fine.”
As they taxied gently down the empty runway, three WWII-era sand-colored half-track military vehicles pulled alongside. Painted on the doors was a shield of a flying falcon with a snake in its mouth.
“Maybe they think we’re important. Giving us the VIP treatment,” said Phelps, though he didn’t sound convincing. When they came to a complete stop, two dozen uniformed soldiers jumped out of their trucks and took aim. Phelps opened his door slowly. “Easy, fellas. We come in peace.”
A tall man in a black robe with a bright red sash, wearing a tall black turban, stepped forward to assess the technology. He ran his right hand affectionately along one of the smooth wings. “Yes, yes. Such a nice surprise. We approve,” he said. “Not new. But in the name of our Supreme Field Marshal, we are delighted to accept your generous offer.”
Phelps stepped forward: “Just a minute. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.” The man in black barked a command, and a soldier kicked Phelps to the ground where he crumpled with a grunt, clearly getting a mouthful of sand. To be safe, Kip knitted his fingers together on top of his head and knelt beside his fellow traveler, hoping this universal gesture of supplication would be recognized and lead to gentler treatment.
The man in black noticed. He clapped happily. “Very good. We appreciate voluntary cooperation. There is no need for violence.” He tsk-tsked like a disappointed nun at a Catholic school. “You, pilot on the ground, look up at my face.” Phelps hesitated then carefully did as he was instructed; he’d learned his lesson. “A few things to clear up before we proceed. I ask you: Are you a spy?”
“What? No.”
“Are you doing reconnaissance for our enemies?”
“Of course not. No.”
“Then you have clearly come to offer us a gift for the Supreme Field Marshal’s birthday. He will be pleasantly surprised. And when he is happy, we are all of us happy, as you will see.”
“Respectfully, sir, may I explain?” asked Phelps.
“There is no need. And you will, of course, stay and fly for us. Today we have the first plane of our national air force.” He shouted a celebratory command at the soldiers who cheered with practiced enthusiasm.
His face still close to the ground, Phelps growled, “It’s my plane.”
The man in black looked confused and then sad. “If you insist.” He gestured for the soldiers. “Stand, stand.” The soldiers helped them to their feet, even brushed the sand off them.
“Thanks. I’m so glad you speak English. This could have gone badly. We just need some fuel, then we’ll be on our way. I’m happy to pay for it.” Soldiers brought out two long ropes and wrapped them around their wrists and tied the other end to the back of the nearest half-track.
“Wait. Wait,” said Phelps. “We just want to go. I thought we were communicating.”
The man in black smiled coldly. “We are. What do they say? Actions speak louder than words. We are taking you to the palace, to rest and rethink your situation. When you give us the right answer, we will give you your freedom.”
“What about my plane?” asked Phelps.
“We’ll leave someone to watch over it. They will tell the curious it belongs to the Supreme Field Marshal, then nobody will touch it.” The man in black looked at Kip. “You’re sure you’re with him?” he teased. Kip nodded. “If he’s the pilot, what does that make you? Navigator? Lookout? Enforcer?”
Kip snorted self-deprecatingly, “An English major.”
The man in black clapped cheerfully. “Wonderful, wonderful. And so young. We don’t see many of those, but I must say you don’t sound like an Englishman. Maybe your friend can help our air force, while you can train our army.”
Kip choked on his words, afraid to re-engage the man’s wrath.
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” said Kip.
“Good then,” said the man in black. “No more talking; you have a long way to walk and will need your energy.” He shouted commands. The obedient soldiers climbed back into their trucks, and the small parade of military vehicles slowly left the airfield, leaving a few sentries. About an hour later, Kip stumbled for the third time and fell face-first. The truck stopped. The man in black appeared immediately. He looked embarrassed, almost contrite. He shouted commands, and the soldiers lifted Kip and Phelps under the canvas-covered back, leaving their wrists tied.
“Thanks,” said Kip to nobody in particular. “I’m new at this abduction business.”
“We are not savages,” said the man in black, “but we must get our point across. When we execute a man, he barely has time to feel it, you’ll see.”
“No offense, but I hope not,” said Kip.
Eventually, they drove through a tall white gate, the entrance to the palace. The soldiers helped them out and removed their restraints, without saying a word.
“Thanks,” Kip said, rubbing his raw wrists as if the gesture would somehow make them feel better.
The sand in the courtyard, which looked like a stockade, was glimmering white, the walls — where they did not have murals of nature — were white, the fountain was white, the palace was white. There was a lot to take in, and much of it was blinding.
“Come,” said the man in black, “I will take you to the Supreme Field Marshal.” He paused. “Maybe you would like a drink first?”
“Depends what’s in the glass,” groused Phelps.
“A drink would be great,” said Kip earnestly.
The man in black herded them to the fountain. “It’s very clean. The dogs drink it. The goats drink it. I have even seen the servants drink it. Please. You’ll need your energy when meeting He That Is In Charge of All You Can See.”
Kip went first. The water was indeed refreshing. “Hiram, it’s not bad. Don’t cut your nose to spite your face. It’ll probably be a long time before we get another offer like this.” Phelps got on his knees and reached his cupped hands in. He smelled it first (for poison?) then drank his fill.
Kip and his host watched. They couldn’t help but smile.
“May I ask a question?” said Kip. “Nothing confrontational, I promise.”
“You may.”
“May I ask your name?” asked Kip. “I mean if we’re gonna be your long-term guests, it feels more neighborly. I’m Kip Farr and he’s Hiram Phelps.”
The stranger paused, weighing his decision. “My father named me Omar, but you must promise to never use it in front of the guards or His Highness. Only for when we are alone.”
“I promise.” Omar was clearly not certain of Kip’s sincerity. “Former Boy Scout: trust me.”
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
