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by Digsmith staff writers  Waterways being their preferred medium for travel, the trio chartered a private helicopter to Duluth, Minnesota, whereupon a hired skiff assisted them in crossing Lake Superior to Isle Royale, the docking place of their 50-foot adventurer’s yacht, The Royal We. Once their craft was fully stocked they set course along the St. Lawrence Seaway, a 1400-mile journey that lead to the Canadian port of Kamouraska. The trip concluded with a 56-mile hike to the northern tip of Maine. In all, the voyage spanned exactly two hundred and forty seven days. The travel-weary team arrived near Fort Chiron, a deserted research post established during the Eisenhower administration to chart the region for a since-abandoned superhighway. The obsolete equipment remaining within the dusty concrete walls of the modest five-room fort proved to be of little use to the travelers, but the accommodations provided them with shelter and a rudimentary guide of the area in the form of assorted maps and other discarded cartographical tools. 
Though excited, the group’s outlook changed negligibly when Banemark uncovered an aged journal that had, nearly fifty years prior, belonged to one of the fort’s tenants. The contents described a brutal attack by the Katahdin centaurs on a surveying team just ten miles west, at the leading edge of a path being cleared to evaluate the area's high-traffic viability. With shortness of breath and a sweat-soaked brow, Banemark read aloud the hastily-scrawled account of the attack. His traveling partners listened intently as the story depicted a covert approach by the centaur herd, with each equinepan carrying an iron halberd forged in an undiscovered woodland hearth. The attack, Banemark continued, was brutally effective and affectively brutal. Those highwaymen not slain retreated back to Fort Chiron in varying states of despondency and dread; some immediately headed north for the Seaway, while others embarked east in the hopes of finding peace in the idyllic waters of the Atlantic. The most inconsolable of the group took their own lives in the base, convinced they would forever be cursed by visions of the slaughter that had been seared into their mind's eyes. Just one man—the book's author, Bartleby Aldridge, whose shaky pen belied the determination described in his journal's closing pages—remained voluntarily at the fort, taking it upon himself to tend appropriately to the dead and wounded, and to properly record the events that had transpired. The final entry concluded tidily with a solemn vow to vigilantly guard Fort Chiron against the centaurs—a breed, he remarked in a brief post script, possessing of truly remarkable beauty, particularly in the sheen of their lush, verdant tails. Upon finishing the story, Thorton Banemark held the journal open in his hands, looked pensively at the ceiling and engaged in silent reflection. Constance Wallace used the opportunity to wonder inwardly what had happened to the journal's author, and whether his decayed remains had fallen somewhere conspicuous within the fort, to be discovered while walking from the kitchen to the living quarters with a tray of victuals, or perhaps while returning from a shower. (This lead to an extended concern about the state of Fort Chiron's plumbing and whether, after fifty years of dormancy, it was up to the task of fueling showers for three guests at regular intervals—not because Wallace was especially prim, but rather stemming from the knowledge that she and her companions would be engaging in strenuous wilderness activities that were sure to leave them quite grimy.) Joseph Vasillis simply cleared his mind during the reverie, having been raised to believe that it was the proper thing to do during what he perceived to be a requiem for their fallen fort forefathers. 
Once the moment had passed, Banemark snapped the tome shut and renewed his pledge to see their quest through to its completion. Inspired by their de facto leader's vigorous resolution, Wallace and Vasillis echoed his devotion, and they adjourned the impromptu meeting to prepare for their initial scouting mission. Banemark reviewed their rucksacks to ensure they were properly equipped with orienteering gear, photographic equipment and the appropriate weaponry. Vasillis took to the maps and located the centaurs' most likely location. And Wallace located a shower in the complex, but was dismayed to find it to indeed be the final resting place of Bartleby Aldridge, whose considerably-rotted skeleton had somehow managed to remain perfectly upright in the cramped stall.They regrouped in the fort's vestibule an hour after parting to coordinate their approach. It was Wallace's belief that the heart of the centaur kingdom lay just past the end of the original surveyors' makeshift path; why else, he posited, would the centaurs attack with such ruthlessness? Working under that premise, the trio elected to retrace the overgrown roadway for approximately nine miles, then break sharply into the dense forest and, traversing with the utmost care, circle around until they came upon the perimeter of the centaurs' camp. There they would assess the inherent risk of further investigation before returning to the fort for additional planning. Agreeing that the plan was among the best they had ever devised, the trio exchanged a round of enthusiastic high-fives, donned their adventuring gear and willingly removed their persons from the fort's protective embrace. Seven hours later, after a tense but uneventful nine-mile trek, it was decided they should enter the forest to the south and continue their westward travel approximately 500 yards from the road. The thick brambles and cluttered mesh of low-hanging tree branches dramatically slowed their progress, but they deemed extra machete work a worthwhile exchange for the protection afforded them by their concealed trail. It was not long, even at their pace, before signs of centaur proximity began to surface with regularity: remnants of clothing and weapons were scattered about the woodland floor, while nearby vegetation showed signs of having been plucked for consumption. As the explorers drew nearer yet, audible evidence of a nearby civilization—interwoven chatter, traditional music, the piercing chime of a blacksmith hammering at his forge—permeated the hazy thicket. Raising a hand to alert his travel companions, Banemark crept forward gingerly, deliberately placing his toes between dried leaves and branches and mindfully rolling his heel down behind them. The murky foliage had begun to thin, and the group's collective pulse grew quicker as the forest's edge drew closer. When just a thin veil of leaves remained between the centaur village and the explorers, they looked resolutely at one another, nodded in reaffirmation and pushed the greenery aside. At the sight, Vasillis gasped and stumbled back. Wallace rifled through the cargo pocket on her khaki adventurers skirt for her camera. Banemark steeled his gaze, and sighed in quiet satisfaction. The site beholden to them was more fascinating than any of them had imagined a city populated by half-horse, half-chimpanzee centaurs could possibly be. Banemark observed the spectacle though a slit between two branches, silenced by the reverence welling up within him. He had devoted his entire life to abstract anthropological quests, and here before him was pinnacle of this pursuit; never again, he realized with bittersweet melancholy, would he discover anything as significant. It was a sentiment shared by Wallace, whose own captivation compelled her to record as much of the moment as possible on film. While changing out her third roll, she became acutely aware of two things: that battery life was a poor reason to forgo her digital camera in favor of an analog one, and that the shutter clicks might be, should a centaur amble nearby, enough to reveal their position. Nevertheless she continued undaunted, assessing the historical value of her photos to be worth the risk of detection. By her side, Joseph Vasillis simply cleared his mind as he surveyed the scene, having been raised to believe that it was the proper thing to do during what he perceived to be a fitting tribute to a foreign culture. 
As they stood agog, a bustle in the hedgerow fractured Vasillis' entrancement. Casting his gaze to the side, he was momentarily stricken with a bout of paralyzing terror: not three meters away, a centaur sentry had fallen asleep among the woodland debris. But his fear was displaced by curious elation when, upon inspection, he noted that the guard's slumber was quite deep—and that its magnificent tail was sprawled out in a most vulnerable manner behind it. Stepping carefully closer, he reached into his backpack and emerged with a large set of adventurer's shears. Upon noticing, Banemark and Wallace protested as frantically as their self-imposed silence would allow, but Vasillis bolstered their chagrin by continuing on his course. After a final check of the centaur's state, he adroitly slid his hand under the tail, held it aloft and placed the gaping scissors an inch below the tail's source. The shears provided an affirming click as they clamped shut, and Vasillis backed away slowly clutching a foot-long chute of glimmering green equinepan tail. The dense, coarse fibers weighed, by his spontaneous estimation, fifteen pounds.Upset though they were about having to forsake any further observations, the scientific party was nonetheless enthused to have such a remarkable specimen in their grasp and immediately decided to depart, lest the de-tailed watchman awake and seek a particularly prejudiced variety of vengeance. Though noted that a forest path offered greater protection, concern about their rate of travel and proper orientation emerged during an ensuing discussion. It was decided that they would, with great haste, travel along the cleared roadway until trouble presented itself—which they all hoped with concerted earnestness would not happen. Though endurance conditioning was not a prescribed activity among the anthropological community, the emboldened trio managed to keep up an admirable pace; whereas it took them the better part of the afternoon to traverse the first nine miles on the way out, they sprinted back the same distance, rucksacks flailing behind them, in an inspired forty-two minutes. But tumult and tragedy, in the form of a rampaging horde of halberd-wielding half-horse, half-chimpanzee assailants—lead by the particularly incensed tail-less guard—eventually crested a hill not ninety meters behind the group. On Banemark's orders they broke for the trees, but the fence-like branch-work was too thick, and Vasillis was too slow with his machete. Banemark and Wallace could do little more than turn and watch from their own forest-edge vantage points as the begrudged sentry hurled his halberd with pinpoint precision, planting it squarely between the tensed shoulder blades of Vasillis. In a final heroic effort, the dying adventurer mustered his remaining strength and heaved his satchel through the obstructing timbers and into the surprised arms of Banemark. Joseph Vasillis then simply cleared his mind as the life drained from his body, having been raised to believe that it was the proper thing to do during what he perceived to be an appropriate end to an adventurer's life. Though beset by inconsolability, the remaining duo managed to battle their way through the formidable overgrowth—which, while cumbersome to the bereaved adventurers, proved to be impassable for the considerably larger centaurs—to a previously undetected back-door at Fort Chiron. The sounds of centaur war cries bore goose-pimples on their skin, but the pair maintained focus best they could as they entered the fort and barricaded the door with nearby furniture. Momentarily safe as they were, the distraught couple paused to compose themselves, but increasingly forceful centaur attacks on the front gate jarred them into action. Banemark scrambled about the fort searching for firearms, while his female companion dashed about looking for protective wear or an inconspicuous, halberd-proof, interior-locking hideaway for the two of them. 
It was when she reached the bathroom that Wallace first heard the sound of the centaurs successfully breaking through the front gate and storming into Fort Chiron. Tears of desperation began to cascade down her soiled cheeks, cutting channels through the clinging filth. Peering into the eternally-occupied shower, Wallace spotted something on Bartleby's corpse that had previously escaped her attention: an ornate conch shell, hanging around its neck. She reached for it and, as the sound of equinepan ransacking grew louder, blew mightily into the shell's dusty mouth. A thunderous, booming bass note rumbled forth from the conch, filling the entire fort. In response, Constance Wallace was greeted by the deafening moan of three dozen centaurs and the clanging as countless halberds and pikes fell inattentively to the floor. Inspired, she rushed out of the fort's living quarters and into the main chamber, where she found Banemark huddled before a cast of writhing centaur attackers. At his impassioned suggestion she again enlisted the conch, and as its overpowering tone emanated forth the centaurs' collective agony immobilized them further. Conceding their advantageous position, the centaurs stumbled from the fort and took to their hooves, stampeding away from the debilitating horn. Wallace stood, bewildered, as Banemark rose to his feet and embraced her. After refortifying the weakened base and bracing the doors against further attacks, Thorton Banemark and Constance Wallace spent the evening reflecting upon the events that had transpired. Having consulted earlier chapters of the fort's journal, Banemark discovered that they were in possession of the legendary Owlshell of Montauk—the sole weapon the fort's protector had found to effectively ward off the centaurs. With the shell as its centerpiece, a memorial was erected for the fort's protector and the brave Joseph Vasillis; immediately thereafter, under the blanket of night, the two adventurers packed their bags, retraced their steps to Kamouraska and embarked on the trip home. Along the way, amid many a tearful night, it was decided between the heartwrenched friends, as they peered out on the nameless coasts of eastern Canada along the seaway, that a small sample of the illustrious tail would be melted down and used to dye a mesmerizing shade of green ink—ink to be used to emblazon a line of adventuring active wear** with the slogan "Don't You Forget About ME," which would be henceforth worn as a tribute to their fallen associate. So it was and so it will be; in memory, in gratitude, in perpetuity. * The genus classification of any half-horse, half-chimpanzee hybrid. ** A portion of all proceeds from the sale of "Don't You Forget About ME" adventuring activewear will go to the Joseph Vasillis memorial fund, which supports the education of people on how to act properly in assorted situations. |
