A lanky man in his late forties stepped near the naked window inside the Spanish hut and eyed groups of young men and women in full force tending to the rows of tomatoes, spinach, eggplants, beans and cabbage in the backfields. An unassuming sign made of a hanging slate, Isidoro Bandi, Custodian hung right of the Spanish hut's doorless entrance. In the front yard, a sturdier bunch worked axes and saws on a fallen black locust, turning it into arrow-shaped logs about the size of fenceposts. A 5'X10' billboard rooted diagonally near the front gate and facing Borges Avenue, read: Ashram. A free commune for artists. Come develop your body of work among peers in exchange for working your body. Guest Counselor: Sheila Gooden, author of Book Circle winning collection of poems, "Tiling Rose Caves". From the gate, the uneven farm road snaked right in semicircles to a sprawling square building laced with columns all around. The building sported a streaky whitewash with some bleached orange mixed in. A chimney towering over the back of the building spewed a galvanizing array of smells combining steamed rice, vegetables, fried ginger, mints and oil.

The man from the Spanish hut strolled out to the aluminum mailbox planted outside the Ashram compound. A spirited girl in her early twenties turned the corner of Bosch Avenue in a rickety ten-speed bike carrying groceries in the front basket. She made a beeline to the Ashram's entrance and planted her left foot to halt the bike next to the mailbox. The girl had waist-length blonde hair left unleashed. She wore a mostly brown tie-dyed shirt with camouflage army pants twice her size. Her bare feet had silver rings on several toes.

"Morning, Isi." She kissed Isi on his right cheek.

"Carol, how are you sunshine? Oh, I'm glad the bike is back. I need to go to the clinic."

"Your blood test is back, huh?" Said the girl as she whisked her head back and kneaded the hair with her fingers. The raised elbows projected her mildly suffocated, downturned mango breasts making it apparent that no bra was underneath.

"I work there as a volunteer, silly girl. Everybody knows that. Anyway, if you're screening me for diseases, I'm clean and fit for anything you have in mind." Isi retorted with a raised eyebrow and a touch of the dramatic.

"You are relentless, I like that about you." She smiled a warm smile. "I'll leave the bike at your abode. Whoever is on cooking duty is going to hate me, I'm late."

One of the field workers, a white male about thirty four walked on towards the Ashram when Isi nearly bumped him with his head bowed and examining the mail.

"Sorry, Mark." Isi said stumbling to catch the dropped mail. Mark dismissed Isi's remark with a shake of the head. He wiped his sweaty neck with a red bandana and tied it back in his wrist. He had a melancholic smile on his face.

"We're going to eat more bbb-beans. The cabbage had some damage from moss, but mmm-most other vegetables are fine." Mark bit his lip in anguish after stuttering out the sentence. He spoke his words fast cramming them in as if to duck the imminent stutter.

"The seasons have been kind, the yield promises to be better than any in the past decade. If you kids feel there is too much beans in our menu, I'll see to that. There's a farmer's market in the harvest quarter where folks trade their produce and goods. Every Saturday in the morning, in the trading grounds. I haven't been there in years because we haven't had a surplus in a long time. Maybe I'll go pitch a tent this Saturday with some of you kids. It'll be an experience."

"I'll be up for that. Hey, Isi, have you seen Sheila? I hhhhaven't seen her all morning. I been meaning to ask her about my ppppoems. She didn't say anything, it's been three days. She probably thinks it stinks." Mark snickered and pouted.

"City folk, you know? She usually gets up late. Last night, well let's just say she kept pushing me to give her some homegrown originals. I don't mind sharing you know, but they not ready yet. She insisted so I gave her some pipe tobacco mixed with some premature grain, she. . .she sucked on it like it was one of those oxygen masks they have in planes. Anyways, she was in the bathroom for at least an hour. I had to use the ones in the Ashram myself."

"Wow, that's crazy. I never took her for a . . ."

"She probably wants you to go up to her in person, ever think of that? Don't be shy about your talent. Get a response from her. She's paid to do that. Get what you can from her, okay? Don't be shy. I have to get going to the clinic."

Mark nodded and proceeded towards the ashram. As Isi headed towards his hut, a red-headed kid confronted him by the expansive alder tree on the way.

"Isi, are you going to be there in time for the yoga session?"

"No. Hector will take over for me. I got to be somewhere."

With towels, cleaning lotions, magazines and some other goodies loaded in a cotton bag in the front basket of the ten-speed bike, Isi peddled on to the intersection of Borges and Bosch.

The crowd dispersed from the lawn area to the east of the Ashram building. A few residents maintained their meditative yoga postures while others seemed on the verge of finishing their stretching exercises. Mark picked up his backpack and headed towards Isi's hut where Sheila stayed.

"Are you there, Sheila? Anyone home? I didn't ssssee you out there like usual so. . ."

Mark entered the hut hastily and dragged his feet enough to gain attention.

"Over here, help, please. Over here in the bathroom."

"Sheila? What's the matter?" Mark tried to push the bathroom door. It almost gave out, except for the rusty latch hanging on like a cheese string in a pizza.

"Push it harder, you almost got it. Please." Sheila sounded weak.

Mark pushed the door through with his left shoulder with such force that he nearly hit the floor on the way in. In a surreal posture, Sheila's heavyset naked legs with her underwear down at her ankles and her head with messy hair was all that was visible; the rest of her was sunk in the toilet bowl.

"Isi, goddamn him. Left the toilet seat up, I sat down without thinking. Please, give me a hand. I think my back is sprained to say the least."

"Don't be embarassed, this. . .this. . ." Mark put his hand around and under Sheila to lift her out of the bowl.

"I'm not, just get, please get me out."

The commode shook from the vibration of Sheila's body leaving it. Water dripped from Sheila's behind and thighs as she got up resting entirely on Mark's shoulder. Mark lost his balance and fell sideways under the sink. Sheila fell over him planting her elbow on Mark's stomach. Mark got up in a hurry and looked away from Sheila. He walked to the sink and turned the water full blast to fill up the sink with the stopper. He then slapped water from the sink on his face with cupped hands. Meanwhile, Sheila slid the shower door open and turned the shower on. She then stepped in and lifted her purple cotton skirt to expose her behind and legs to the showerfall.

When Mark's head came up to the mirror above the sink, he saw Sheila's reflection in the shower. His unblinking eyes remained mesmerized at the sight of shower pellets dripping from her supple derrière and down her voluptuous, stony thighs. At 5'6'', she was well smoothed over with flesh, no bones were evident--knees, shins, and ankles, all smothered like gravy over potatoes. But her figure was proportionately well-worn without any sagging. Her eyes were closed. Her face resting on the shower tiles had the calm repose one gets when a wound is being monitored with care.

Suddenly he exhaled a gulf of air and shook his head from side to side admonishing himself. He released the stopper from the sink drain. Sheila stepped out of the shower letting the skirt cling to her body. Her loose white blouse sported patches of perspiration in the sides. Her breasts were wide awake.

"I should go. I really should get ggggoing. Should get you a doctor." Mark, utterly serious.

"Wait. You're not going to leave a damsel in distress are you? I could use your shoulder until I reach my bedroom. My back is cramped." Sheila's voice was playfully assertive.

Mark obliged and dragged her carrying most of her weight. They staggered into her bedroom where she slid off his hold and fell sideways on the bed. Her skirt rode up revealing a baseball sized purple blotch behind her knee.

"I should really get a ddddoctor, you're seriously hurt."

"Forget it, Mark. The nearest doctor is 40 minutes away. If you can get me some eucalyptus oil from the medicine shelf in the bathroom, that'll be great."

Sheila's eyes were closed in a delirious, inebriated way. Her words were garbled and whiney. Mark fetched a dark bottle that reeked of a pungent varnish smell. Sheila lifted her skirt above her waist and lay flat facing the bed. Her love-handles had purple streaks on them like melted metal parts in a car accident.

"Just pour it wherever you think I need it." Sheila turned her head away as she spoke.

With the bottle in his left hand, Mark scratched his head vigorously with his right. At that moment, Carol appeared by the bedroom door."Oops, I'm sorry. The door was open and I . . ." Carol played with her fingers nervously.

"Is that you, Carol? Good. You can do this. Mark here is blushing up a rash." Sheila turned around and winked at both of them mischievously."I hope you feel better." Mark handed the bottle to Carol with his face down and disappeared without a word.

"Oh my god, Sheila. What happened?"

"Battlewounds."

"Huh?"

"All right, can you keep a secret? This is just to protect Mark. He's a very private person." Sheila whispered something to Carol causing Carol's eyes to nearly pop out.

"No way. Him?" Carol pointed to the door where Mark had stood moments ago.

"Uh, huh." Sheila, with a naughty laugh.

Wearing a plaid robe and swinging a beach towel like a propellar in his right hand, Isi stepped into the Ashram building. Inside the building, an expansive hallway had sunlight beaming in through two slanted ceiling windows like from parallel projection booths. Against the east and west walls of the room were metal bunk beds arranged sequentially in boot-camp style. Most residents were up and about the room heading towards the showers on the left and right of the Northern wall, distinguished by a calligraphed M and W.

In one of the bottom bunks near the bathrooms sat a young man hunched over something on his bed. Isi stepped closer to his bed.

"What's that a new cartoon clipping?"

"No, just people living like cartoon creatures." The young man looked up with intense blue eyes, his upper lip swollen like a boxer's.

"Jesus, are you all right, Billy? What the hell happened?"

Billy looked around and handed a glossy photo to Isi.

"Looks like a peasant in a third world slum with wood shacks. What's this gotta. . ." Isi's voice jumped.

"You've never seen this place?" Billy asked without showing much emotion.

"No."

"I took that yesterday. That's no third world slum. It's right here in the marshes behind Harvest quarter." Billy's voice reduced to a whisper.

"You are loosing me again with your riddles. Who hit you and what's this photo? How are they connected?"

"Shsh. Let's take a walk, Isi." Billy, with a serious calm. Isi obliged and hurried out.

"Go on."

Isi walked towards his hut followed by Billy.

"I was out taking some pictures at the Harvest Bazaar the other day. It's for a photo essay I'm working on for the Aliento Tribune. I decided to take a break and headed towards one of the trails behind the bazaar. I didn't know anyone lived back in the marshes. I kept smelling some strange spice and decided to check it out. About a mile and a half in I saw these shacks. Unbelievable, Isi. These people must be piss poor to not find apartments in Aliento. So I took a couple of quick pictures and the film ran out. I went back to the bazaar and bought some more film. I returned to the place and shot some more. That's when a jeep pulled up next to me and these two big thugs jumped out and started punching and kicking me."

"What? What did they look like?"

"They looked like native Indians, with braided ponytails and fists bigger than baseball gloves. One exposed the new roll and broke my camera. The other said he would skin me if he saw me again. They said I was off-limits and had no business beyond Harvest quarter. Tell me Isi, is that area Indian territory?"

"Might be. That still doesn't explain why they had to rough you up. This is from the earlier roll, right?"

"Yeah. I got a couple more that's it. The negatives are there too."

"You sure they were native Indians?"

"High cheekbones, wide faces, tall heavy build, I think so. What do you make of all this?"

"I have some ideas, but first tell me how many others saw this?" Isi sounded cautious.

"No one yet. But I know how to stir up some answers. Hell, I work for a newspaper." Billy, bringing some menace to his voice.

"Do me a favor, Billy. Don't tell another soul about this. We can't afford to be sloppy. Now hand me the other photos, I got to see someone who can give me some answers." Isi put the photo in his robe pocket.

Billy stared at Isi for a few moments.

"You can trust me, Billy. Besides, you have the negatives." Isi firmly held Billy's shoulders.

"Okay, but I have to come with you wherever you're going." Billy shook loose of Isi's hands and pointed his index finger at him.

"Can't have that, Billy. These people don't like strangers."

"Hey, I got beat up for this, you have to let me in on this. This is my scoop."

"Even a young reporter like you should know about not revealing sources. Come on, I'll tell you everything I find out. Bring the other photos to my hut."

"When and where do we meet?"

"Let's make it Tabla Manners at 3."

"You better be there, or else I'm going back to the swamps with cops and a new camera."

"Show some trust, huh, lay low. Don't do anything stupid. If there's a story, it's yours." Isi forced a cheerful wink at Billy and headed towards his hut."