“Good morning you two,” I say, ease my speed and add, “Oh! Madsen? Any reports of new technology from EB?”
“Why an’ all?” he asks.
“Just curious,” I reply.
He stares ahead and says, “You round-n-about have a reason. You-n-who needs that info?”
“No one and nothing altogether,” I reply. “I’m interested in how Wernt’s thoughts are hidden.”
“We need to discuss something—urgent,” he snaps back.
“At my store...it’s closest,” I say.
“No,” Maggie says. “Pull off—there at the foot of the dune—it’s way closer.”
“An’ now!” Madsen says. “We ain’t for fun.”
“Okay?” I say glancing back-n-forth between them but their faces remain blank, their minds in blocked mode. We park facing each other and remove our helmets.
Three engines tick their cooling. Madsen rubs his temples. Maggie stares into the distance. Their attention circles as though choreographed until both focus on me.
They remain seated—their eyes unable to hide how grief-stricken and angry they are. Recent events circle like hungry Arzerns wings linked blocking out the sunlight.
I expect the worst from faces as solemn as these. Has my road as a campaigner ended? Madsen will know if I’ve been dismissed for recent failures as well as Wernt’s hidden thoughts. Then add my failures to report and what more-n-all he can conjure.
He may suspect betrayals on my part with regards the reports I’ve not given. At best that is negligence. But, strangest of all—what’s Maggie doing here? Why are these two together? I hold all questions at bay, hide what I’m thinking and wait.
Into the ticking of cooling engines Madsen says, “Awful Once-Other...Franciscoa has been taken an’ all.”
I’m shocked and a little ashamed to be relieved by the news.
The sudden tears in Maggie’s eyes stun me though.
“He’s my uncle an’ teacher,” she says dabbing at an eye.
I nod and assume this is why she is here.
She wipes her cheeks and says, “It was bad-on-bad when you an’ all were sent to prison. Has an effect...your loving uncle suddenly a criminal? But he’s a good man. Hits home way hard.” And her tears roll freely.
Uncertain if it’s right by her, Madsen dismounts, steps onto the foot-peg of her SandRider and wraps an arm around her shoulders.
She rests her head on it for but a moment then pushes him away, dries her eyes, smiles woefully and barks, “Don’t you an’ both dare mention this. Not ever you hear. Not even ‘tween yourselves. I will castrate you! Both of you an’ altogether.”
I wave such terrible deeds aside saying, “You got it, Maggie.”
“Kinda important you remember,” she adds.
“We’ll do so,” I assure her.
Madsen now back in the saddle waits, his face blank. She glares from him to me and back a few times, appears satisfied at what she finds, folds her arms and turns to Madsen.
“Better tell him an’ all,” she says.
For a moment they both stare at sand.
Madsen sighs.
Maggie flaps her hands. “Get on with the telling,” she commands.
“Well?” he says. “Franciscoa was round-n-about the Drinks-n-All last night. He disappeared after saying, loud an’ all, that he ain’t part of this campaign of ours—but sounding like he is. Later someone picked up a call for help. Not certain if it was Franciscoa or not. Happened after closing, most patrons had left.”
I rock backward too stunned to say anything.
Maggie glares at Madsen.
“Okay, an’ round-n-about Maggie,” Madsen says. “Took place in a dark corner of the parking lot. No further details are available at this time. We sure ain’t got who abducted him nor how. Informant suspects Franciscoa’s communication was blocked an’ all. There was probably no time-n-all for a Nomadi call. We’ve assigned several Rescue teams. They’re out-n-about searching.”
With tragic suddenness the meaning of our chatter about Franciscoa’s retirement curves full circle—he’d put himself out as bait while understanding that this may be his final act. With his thoughts blocked and taken as he was in the dark of night rescue may be well-nigh impossible. I figure he’d grown tired of living with poison and pain though he never showed it.
Wait! Was this what happened to Jiplee? Worse! What of my illness? Are these symptoms warnings? I force those fears back into the dark hole they leapt out. But mental images of myself laid out upon the desert as Jiplee was—and as dead—assault me. Yes! It could happen.
Though struggling for calm, I yet manage to hide my internal battle from them. “Too damn fast and too damn suspicious,” I manage to say. “You know what? I was there the night before Peter Wernt’s tour began.”
“Anything unusual?” Madsen asks examining me in detail.
Am I not trusted? No. Not by Madsen. That’s clear enough.
“Not really,” I reply. “I had a few drinks. Then more. Spoke to one or two acquaintances. A tourist. Nothing unusual.”
Maggie folds her arms and with eyes never leaving mine says, “I’m not concerned with that an’ all. Anything happen with that tourist?”
“No,” I reply.
“What you two talk on an’ all?” Madsen asks.
“Nothing unusual. Normal, everyday, questions.”
“Like what?” Maggie growls in return.
“Didn’t you get what I just said? The usual Maggie! Scars. Pre-Owned. Heat. Sand. UWMD. Nothing about our campaign. I gave him a pamphlet is all.”
“Okay—hang back an’ all,” Madsen says waving his arms in a settle down appeal. “Wait Maggie. You calm down now Once-Other. Ain’t this round-n-about why Jiplee didn’t, or couldn’t, call for help? An’ what’s happening ain’t no plague of old but something new.” We three shudder at tales of old. I dismount and lean against Hellbent II’s front wheel.
Hundreds of years ago a plague ravaged amongst us. For endless years mind-to-mind vanished. No cure was ever found because the afflicted remained in a permanently blocked-state.
Medical specialists unable to gain access to their minds failed to discover the cause, nor did they come up with a cure. I shudder at the number of deaths recorded but am thankful it eventually ended.
Maggie clears her throat and I return from the past. “I’d best send Peter Wernt on his way and join the search,” I say.
“You are ordered to continue,” Madsen says. “Others will deal with this. You stay to your campaign.
I accept his order with a cold nod.
Maggie climbs down, walks over, steps on Hellbent II’s foot-peg, wraps her arms around my neck and whispers, “You! You know an’ all. Right? Not personal. Don’t make it so—for me. Okay?”
“Alright, Maggie. I get it. Friends are at risk. So are we. But I can’t put a finger on who or where the attack is coming from. And I’m not sure if what Madsen says links to it or not. Damn strange altogether.”
“What more about Peter Wernt?” Madsen demands as Maggie returns to her SandRider.
For their benefit I review Peter once again and say, “Right. Okay. Yes. He’s damn awsomely peculiar. Let’s see uh...he’s interested in our UWMD as they all are despite his pretenses not to be.
“Humph! Yesterday I found him trying to access my ID Check connect. Pretty bad manners on his part. Most of all I’m unhappy with his reason for leaving when my leg was apparently being chewed. But responsibility is so low amongst EB’s any excuse will do so....”
“You all sure that’s it Once-Other?” Maggie asks.
“I am. I understand this man now. Know him pretty well in fact. We’ve been through a lot together. He’s shown no interest in our campaign, irritation at best for our political system, our Rights in particular and insists I’m wasting his time with those.
“Actually, he fights back with loud protests...and rudely so. He is not interested in our politics, our taxes, our economy—the
only thing he responded well to is the rendition of our planet’s structure, the inner and outer core, in particular, …oh! And the size of Here-Born’s interior rock.
“Damn? How could I forget? He suffers one or more afflictions.” I tap my temple to indicate their probable location.
Madsen dismounting, says, “Round-n-about an’ all—that’s the depth of what you know?”
“Madsen,” I growl.
He turns to me brushing at sand on his sleeve. His eyebrows creep up his forehead and hook there like question marks. I bite my tongue killing a curse.
He’s about to speak, but I cut in saying, “No. I was suspicious of him, but it turns out he has a weird personal interest in me. That’s true more than anything else. He’s asked me personal questions—only. I mean, even who I was and if I’m the sole owner of my store. But you’re right. What’s wrong with him I just don’t...his thoughts....”
They both stare at opposite horizons as though struggling to come to terms with the obvious lies of a ten-year-old. Maggie turns to Madsen who is inspecting his engine, and waits.
“That be troubling more than enough,” Madsen muses and turns our way fiddling with a shirt button.
“Right,” Maggie whispers and runs her forefinger down her nose, inspects it and seems satisfied. I blink reminded of Deidre doing something similar.
Silence hangs hot, the wind murmurs questions, questions about my getting Peter’s thoughts or not. If yes, then I’m lying to them. I wait. Madsen says, “If this an’ all ain’t him—then where they attacking from? Who is?”
I force myself to relax, flex my fingers, sigh and say, “We conduct multiple Talking Tours Madsen—not just mine. Who says we’re even looking for a tourist when as many EB’s are here doing business.”
“You realize it’s twice now, Once-Other,” Maggie says wiping my words away with a swipe of her hand.
A dust devil dances in between us before I can reply and dies before our eyes.
“Twice?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Once in the goldmine an’ once with the Crier. Twice you’ve been injured or come close while out an’ about with this Wernt.” She taps her temple her eyes hard and grim. “Dangerous? A criminal an’ all?”
“I don’t think so, Maggie,” I reply. “He hasn’t done anything I’d consider a real threat. Without his thoughts though, I’ve no certainty.” They both glance off across sand as those who have questions they fear to ask.
In the opposite direction, a sand-snail peeks out from beneath sand. Its periscope eyes riveted on Maggie as though aware she’ll roast him given the opportunity. Her eyes follow mine and so do Madsen’s. The instant she spots the sand-snail its eyes retract followed by a scurrying retreat beneath sand.
We all laugh. Madsen and I glance at Maggie who appears a little embarrassed, face flushed.
She faces me and is about to press her concerns about Peter Wernt, but I cut her off. “Wait! You’re on the wrong track with Wernt. I was as well, at first. Now you are. He’s not dangerous. Now, and at best as I can tell without access to him, Peter is...a mild to wild epileptic. Perhaps medication is the cause of his thoughts being unavailable.”
They frown their disbelief.
“Okay. Here’s my full take on him. He’s got to be on medication altogether. Got to be! Times he’s calm and relaxed, times he’s pure nuts. Excuse the coarseness of—it’s all that comes to mind. I’ve seen what happens to him. You should be around when he has his bouts—real revelation. Never imagined something like...can happen to someone, one-two-three and altogether. Once he ah...never mind. On the other side, he appears to be interested in me personally.”
They wave me on. I oblige. “He’s aggravating to put it mildly. Self-centered and worse but if he’s an active enemy...he has it well hidden. And of course, he loves all things EB.”
Madsen lets out a long slow breath, washes his hands together as though he’s done with something or someone. He glances at Maggie, the far desert and thinks for a moment after which he stands taller, turns and examines me.
His face softens and he says, “Alright, an’ thank you Once-Other. Like Maggie said, nothing personal. I’ll put out a High Priority Alert to all campaign members an’ Rescue Teams. We need be extra careful. I ain’t looking to lose Franciscoa. Jiplee was about one too many altogether.”
“Okay Madsen,” Maggie says.
“Good idea,” I add but remain alert; for what he says isn’t always, and is often the opposite, of what he concludes.
Madsen’s eyes harden. “You ain’t been on form of late Once-Other. You be awful careful. Maggie an’ I’ll tune in with you—until he leaves. No! Not to keep track of you an’ all—just backup.”
I nod as he-who-is-not-fooled.
Now. Due to Madsen’s ever darkening nature I keep my bouts of giddiness, disorientation and Wernt’s strange images when he and I shake hands, to myself. Furthermore, news of ill health would not help any.
A SandMaster’s roar cuts the silence. We freeze at this aural evidence of the hunter. Its exhaust note grows louder. We are unable to move, glued to sand. Only my eyes dance as I search the desertscape. However, I cannot find a sand-cloud nor the SandMaster itself.
Maggie swallows and steps towards her SandRider. Madsen holds the tip of his nose between forefinger and thumb.
“Same one,” I say.
They both nod. We wait, hearts pounding.
The engine roars louder as the driver drops down six gears.
I listen more intently and yes it’s up-dune—there’s a different music when braking against engines and descending. Rapid gear changes tell he has topped the dune. Within minutes, it is quiet.
Inside my mind the roar of exhausts resounds.
How different I muse, the sound of those engines in the hands of a Desert Drive yet so sweet they sang in my own hands.
We glance at each other and shrug.
We mount and head off downtown.
The wind flutters by warm and pleasant. Hellbent II glides across the hard-packed sand of the freeway. I glance northwards to where that SandMaster is headed.
What’s he doing down south? We see them on occasion but not often. Why has this one dallied so long? It’s been several days that I’ve heard him. I take a deep breath of fresh, hot out the oven Here-Born air and smile grimly.
Yes, EB’s have a terrible time with heat as did our Founding pioneers. Twenty-five percent of those original pioneers died of heat exhaustion within the first two weeks of their arrival. This despite the survival skills each possessed naturally and for which they were chosen. The three-quarters left became our three different population groups.
Tourists have it harder on Here-Born. Brother Sun has taken many of their lives when they were merely strolling around town. The inventors of fan-n-fit suits must have made a killing. They are also responsible for the tourist explosion.
So then. Thank you to all fan-n-fit inventors.
I glance to the sky. In the distance, a single Arzern heads west. I grin at Here-Born and ponder over what scorched and left her all desert-n-rock. There is proof that long ago water filled our sand oceans, lakes, and rivers.
I should take the time to get our naturalists invigorated in search of further answers.
I wave to Maggie and Madsen as we enter the outskirts of Sand Lake Flats and peel off eastwards.
Attention back on the road before me, my mind hunting ahead to Peter Wernt when out of nowhere the impossible occurs.
A frozen breath of air wraps its arms tight around me and whispers, “Is Freedom dead? Have our Rights vanished…forever?”
CHAPTER 41
Of A Desert Driver
I ride uneasy in mind. Chef’s Call-out thick with warmth and the aromas of bacon, sausages, pancakes and coffee, ambles by and smooths my mental goosebumps away. I sigh. Hellbent II burbles a V8’s throaty tune.
Peter Wernt grabs my hand as though I am a long lost relative recently named the sole beneficiary o
f a vast family fortune—to which he feels entitled. I flinch at the blades of gray light firing off his fan-n-fit but brace up and pull my hand back.
But he holds onto it and says, “Yeah! One hell of a slipped-down-dead Friday that was but here we are. You’re looking good. You okay?”
“Thank you. Kind of you to ask.”
“No, no Once-Other. I’m grateful. Got to admit that...well...from your...was not a good experience.”
“Very observant of you, Peter.”
Stepping closer, he squeezes my hand and as unexpected as hail falling a storm of images rains down upon me. Each virtual hailstone slams into my Foundation, shatters, and turns into a picture revealing a glimpse of Peter’s past.
I gaze fixated as several automobile wheels churn across desert sand, then in snow then back to desert. Suddenly tropical trees sway in the wind and endless waves of the bluest of water break upon a pristine beach.
Dripping random fragments, I emerge from the image storm to find Wernt watching me intently, a trust me smile on display. He releases my hand and says, “I’ve empathy for those with whom I’ve shared the dangers of adventuring.”
I shake the remaining images off. Now more than ever I need to understand why at certain times I get Peter’s thoughts both when touching and not touching him. I must solve this.
Suddenly the desert vanishes one-two-three, altogether.
Darkness surrounds me. I peer into its depth.
Vague images flash by too fast to grasp. I concentrate harder. Peter appears and disappears. A sudden sandstorm swirls and breaks burying me beneath its two thousand sand-paces height. I retreat from suffocation, climb upwards into my head and search for yesterday’s words.
After an intense search, I find them. They are my father’s.
He speaks of mental lapses friends of his had suffered—those who had previously been stung by Criers. I embrace his words, bow my head and paddle up through sand. My chest heaves. My head pounds and I’m about to surrender, but sunlight returns and Peter materializes standing before me.
In a thick, wooden voice I manage to say, “Okay. Interesting and thank you. Now, come inside and we can continue with your tour and well paid for it was.”
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