For the last 22 days, Victor Spoyle had stepped around the bundle of rags that occupied a habitual place adjacent to the East 42nd street exit from Grand Central. He refused to meet the gaze of the large, brown eyes that peered from under the filthy skullcap, nor even glance at the dog-eared picture of the little girl the man – he was just guessing – held up in front of him, making a silent appeal on behalf of them both. Spoyle had assumed the picture was just a trick, a photo torn from a magazine or stolen from a cemetery.
That was the sort of person he was.
People were a product of their own choices and if some weren’t even offered one, well, it was hardly any fault of his.
But on the 23rd morning, things were different.
The bundle of rags was there but the brown eyes were not. Instead, a couple of New York’s finest stood by as a paramedic knelt by the former human, working with no real urgency.
The 8:14 from Queens set up a gust that made the tiny photograph dance – until the tip of Victor Spoyle’s umbrella pinned it to the ground.
Against his better judgement – like most of his kind, he had a pathological dislike of getting involved – he picked it up and peered at it closely.
He had to admit, the little girl’s eyes looked remarkably similar to those he had avoided for the last month. He turned it over, looking for some sort of provenance.
There was a name: Maramba.
That was all.

It was a very odd coincidence. Before yesterday Victor had never even heard of Maramba. Yet this mornings post had seen the arrival of a postcard from that very place. The message had been deeply cryptic. "Meet her gaze Victor." Victor felt suddenly quite ill.

This situation was not to be sidestepped.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. With a sudden feeling of agitation, Victor realized the little scene before him was making him late. This was all just a coincidence after all, with a simple explanation to be had. He shouldered his way through the slightly curious crowd and headed toward his office.

Work was busy as usual, but the scene he had just witnessed stayed with him all day. That night, even sleep would not allow his mind to rest. His life was to be changed profoundly by someone he never knew.

He dreamed vividly of a way of life he had never experienced, never seen, never even imagined.

In the dream he was a street person. A faceless, personality free smelly rag wearing tramp. Every face he looked to for help quickly averted his gaze, looked straight through him, or kicked him as they pushed past him on their way to their lives. He slumped back into the busy streetside position he had set himself up in, and tried to find the will to do it again.

He awoke with a deep sense of loneliness towering over him. A dream was just a dream but this one had really made him think, all this was too much for him. Never had he has this feeling before from a mere dream. He wasn’t a spontaneous guy but today he felt he needed a vacation or anything that will get away from this nightmare. The atlas in the corner of the room seemed to speak out to him.

When he was a child, he and his sister used to play a game where they'd take turns at closing their eyes and placing their finger on an unknown place on the atlas. They'd dream of going there.

It seemed, perhaps, a strange way to pick a vacation destination as an adult. But then again, the events of the last 24 hours had been pretty strange themselves. Perhaps they merited a strange response.

Taking down the atlas from its dusty position atop an old shelf, he felt the weight of the hefty tome. He paused. "This is really stupid", he told himself, stroking his neatly clipped dark beard nervously. But something willed him on. He thumbed apart the book, allowing it to fall open where destiny led. And there before him was a destination he couldn't take his eyes off.

The atlas was old and the borders of the world had changed, since its publication, just as the borders of his world had changed.

Christchurch, New Zealand was cold and depressive. What was this place?
He hailed a cab and saw a destroyed city flash past. Streets that looked like a gappy toothless grin of a child. "What happened here?" Victor asked.
"Earthquakes" the driver replied. "Going to?". He looked at hotel signs all showing a red sticker for "to be demolished". Was this where is destiny had lead hIm?

. The taxi bumped and juddered over the cracked and patched-up streets.
In Hagley Park, the trees were coming into leaf, and beneath was a golden carpet of daffodils. Families were meandering in the park, children were running and laughing, and suddenly Victor felt an inner glow and warmth within himself.
The heart and essence of the Garden City had not been destroyed.

This city, tumbled and collapsed, stone upon stone had run through the headlines of Victor's Wall Street journal: commodity prices, the rise and fall of shares... and yet the fortunes of the city were now built around the people who had the will to go on. The will and the means to go on.

Victor had been aware of the damage done to Christchurch. Still, the first pictures that had come to his mind on opening the atlas were not ones of despair and destruction. Rolling green hills, golden beaches and dots of white sheep had flashed before his eyes. Clichés, he knew it well, yet his troubled mind was hungry for alluring clichés and he had fed on them on the long flight over.

Victor decided to catch a ride with some people he befriended - they were travelling up to Auckland.

The ride up to Picton could have been uneventful except for the wee problem that the folks he caught a ride with were tourists from Norway and did not speak English. Through sign language, Victor soon found out Helga and Per, lived in Bergen, and planned to sail from Wellington to Auckland. It was even mentioned that Victor might like to come along as crew.

Victor thought long and hard about the proposal. He had never really been a spontaneous sort of man, but maybe this was a sign. Maybe he should take Helga and Per up on their offer. The idea of travelling without having to speak was quite appealing.

Victor accepted the offer. In a few hours he was aboard the vessel and sailing up alongside the North Island. The sun beat down onto the deck washing over Victor and the tourists. Towards the evening Victor saw his red face reflected back in his dessert spoon, and he chuckled. Helga handed him a tube of sunburn cream.

Helga, Per & Victor decided to go to Samoa. A tour guide showed them the banana plantations & there they met Arona, a local farmer. He explained how with the support of Oxfam these bananas were helping so many people. The bananas were dried & to be sold in NZ. Victor munched on a sweet banana chunk & gave a thumbs up to Arona. Arona broke into a grin & gave a thumbs up of his own.

Victor sees a business opportunity. Get the right investment and there could be a fortune here. Arona stops grinning. What’s in it for me? I do all the work and you get all the gains. He knows how palagi have done this before, many times, and they also wiped out a lot of his family in the measles epidemic. Arona has just spoilt Victor’s chances of getting a foothold in the banana industry.

They were at a banana plantation when they looked out to sea. The tide sucked away, leaving fish fapping on the wet sand. Victor ran to collect the fish. Arona stopped him.
'No brother,' that is not a business opportunity.'ground. Victor was furious.
'You want to get those fish yourself.' He tugged himself free.
The rising wave started from way back and grew.

Both men were devoured by it . Victor wondered if he would see Arona again. He had never considered dolphins, now he longed for one to rescue him like in the old seafering tales. He was tossed high and then taken down to be bevelled by the pebbles and rocks on the oceans floor. Mother earth was letting him know some things and he could not escape her powerful grasp.

Resigning himself to his fate, Victor relaxed and let the water take him.

Suddenly, he felt a strong hand wrap around his wrist, dragging him upwards. The heaviness of the ocean gave way and within moments he was breaking the surface. His rescuer dragged him to the shore where he lay gasping for breath for several minutes, too dazed to appreciate his good fortune.

Victor woke with sand in his mouth, a crab scuttled past his face.

A night and a day had passed while he lay there, his tongue was sore, his hands bloody. As his eyes focused he slowly began to understand one thing. He wasn't in Samoa anymore.

He felt different, like he had travlled a great distance in a short amount of time. It was almost surreal, almost.

Suddenly cool water was being carefully poured into his mouth.
Victor looked up into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen."You are most lucky to be alive"she said"I think the Pirates must of brought you to shore..some of them are still kind..most of them used to be fishermen in the old days here before the troubles began..."My name is Majula and this land is called Somalia..

Victor squinted as the sun's glare left her face in the shadows, he couldn't help but think how much he owed to fate.

With the sun gleaming down and the uninhibited coastline stretching on either side, Victor couldn't help but feel as if this were another one of his dreams.

The sudden explosion of gunfire interrupted his thoughts.
"Quick, run!"
They were definitely not alone.