Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  And pain beckons to me.

  I return inwards and anchor myself.

  From the center of my body I reach for and touch every beat, every pulse of pain that remains, making them my own.

  They slip free and tumble down into my legs.

  Muscles twitch. Yet I make them work. And I stand.

  Muscles twitch.

  Muscles work.

  I open my eyes and embrace a vision of the blue sky.

  “And he walked,” I whisper.

  I set off but something further is wrong.

  With my legs demanding the right to collapse altogether, I stop and force them to stand still.

  I listen intently intrigued at how loud rocks falling back into Iron Rock Wellspring sound.

  I step forward and my foot drops down into quicksand.

  I twist about in midair and throw my torso backward, land with my upper body on firm sand and my right leg buried in quicksand.

  I am at the edge of Wellspring Lake draped over the border between sand and death and slipping into the grave.

  Disorientated by pain and poison and led here by the will of those two villains, I have walked eastwards towards Wellspring Lake not westwards along Ozerken’s tracks.

  I have made a terrible life-threatening error. I must backtrack and now. I cannot afford to lose my trail. It leads back to Ozerken’s. I need his as it gives direction and guidance crossing the mountains down to the Lowlands.

  I push down with my left knee to find it’s on compacted sand. I grip at sand with it and with my good hand working as a paddle, pull myself free as my teeth grind against pain.

  I pause, look around, orientate and crawl in the right direction. At a safe distance I stand up, brush off one-handed, check for direction and with the Lake at my back I scout about.

  After some minutes, some blinking, some reassuring, I set off once again. Sand puffs up at my every step. I march onwards fighting Crier poison, Wernt’s poison, heat, thirst, fatigue, fear and worst of all—the urge to give up, lie down and sleep for all eternity.

  Ahead my old footprints recede into the distance down a long dimly lit tunnel. I keep going. The tunnel vanishes and becomes a tiny patch of sand. I don’t know whether it is real or pure delusion—but I walk. Several World Wars of pain are under way in my head and arm, chest and back.

  Much later my footprints vanish.

  I stagger to a halt, tunnel-vision dissolves and I glance about. To my left is an indentation in sand.

  I hurry over and find dry blood. Mine I hope.

  I scan the area; spot some tracks made by a SandMaster and follow them. Tunnel-vision returns with Ozerken’s tracks in sharp focus. Later his tracks vanish. I halt and gaze out ahead but nothing. I take a step forward, still nothing. I turn around keeping a careful watch on direction.

  Wait! Behind me—marks in sand. I scurry over. They are of a SandMaster executing a sharp left. I follow as they twist back-n-forth across sand. He must have hit semi-quick-sand and careened out of control. I kneel and test the surface but find nothing to skid upon.

  What happened? Ozerken is a professional.

  I examine sand while noting my broken arm no longer pains me. I hope that the swelling has locked the bones in place. I stand up. My head spins.

  I hold still until all of everything comes into focus. I look outwards from his tracks and a tiny outcrop of Rocklands, a minute brown pimple pasted upon the vast desertscape grabs my attention.

  I stagger across just as a gust of wind blows lifting its eastern edge and my heart races with sudden hope. I charge forward teeth clenched against the explosions in my arm and chest.

  I fall onto the brown and reach out as doubt laughs contemptuously. I bite at fur, rub the coat down my chest, bury my face and drink deeply of its musky flavor.

  I hold in my hands the coat Ozerken so carelessly tossed into an exterior compartment. Oh, joy! I laugh long and hard but force myself to stop at the precipice of sanity and reason.

  His wild skid must have flipped open the compartment allowing the wind to blow the coat free. I struggle to my knees and fumbling, search through its pockets with memory charged desperation. What had Ozerken slipped into the pocket as he walked to his SandMaster?

  Into my good hand, he deposits three vital items. No four!

  I sit back, consider Ozerken anew and as a greater quandary.

  By all Here-Born standards his dedication to Wernt’s criminal actions bespeaks of treason. This odd and pathetic attempt to help me survive will not mitigate in his favor should his role come to light. He knows this. Why bother providing these at this stage?

  But not one to stare a gift Roanark Braer in the mouth I lay them out on the fur coat—my heart beats faster as soul-crushing doubt assaults reason. Is this all my imagination? Are these three items actually here?

  On the coat rests a healing preservative injector, an anti-venom injector and a roll of Bondo-Preserve bandage but not a single drop of water. No food either. As valuable as these are their benefit is compromised by the lack of water.

  And four...is the coat itself. It will provide protection from driven sand. Blown sand can slice away flesh as easily as a butcher’s knife.

  Dry protein biscuits would have been good. How tasty they are when softened in water and eaten with the sauce of intense hunger spread over. Gingerly, I reach out and confirm they are real, as real as my poison fogged mind can estimate and just in time—my body is breaking down.

  Poison is working its way ever deeper-n-deeper leaving a trail of dead tissue in its wake. Obviously, Peter Wernt intended my final dying would be painful, long and drawn out. My purging has slowed the process, but my body is now breaking down as my fingers stiffen more-n-more.

  I’ve almost no time left.

  I pull my shirt up, hold the seam clamped by teeth and twitching jaws, expose the long needle of the anti-venom injector, plunge it all the way into my stomach and depress the plunger. Not wanting to pause in case I never again awaken, I roll up my left sleeve. Shaking I rest my broken arm on my thigh and move the separated pieces until the broken bone lines up as best I can judge.

  Fighting the darkness slamming into me like a sledgehammer swung in the hands of a professional, I inject the healing Preservative into the break. Wild fever rampages as I wind the Bondo-Preserve bandage around my arm making them tight enough to keep the bone in place yet blood flowing.

  I push my right arm into the sleeve and curl up just as my light turns off. And I know I may never awake so what I now record is for you….

  If I should fail to awaken—hopefully a new and patriotic writer will continue my work. He or she will find all my actions with thoughts included on my Nomadi. Perhaps find more than they will care to know of me. I hope he or she will continue what this Here-Born named Once-Other started and if you care to travel the road that I have, please do a good job.

  Make me proud as well as any I leave behind.

  Patriots are all that a nation can count on in times of distress.

  True now, in the past and will always be so.

  The brave and the willing are often not the obvious.

  They are almost never the loud and noisy but instead, are the quiet individuals who are driven to action by an unrelenting abuse of their Rights by others. These quiet ones are hindered some by a willingness to wait for those others to cease their oppressive natures and so become worthy of representing them.

  Please do not wait too long.

  Also! Never surrender and never go quietly nor apathetically into slavery no matter how attractive getting free stuff looks nor how easy not having to work sounds.

  Keep in mind that all hunters offer their prey a free meal whether it’s hung from a snare or served-n-caged in a one-way entrance. Free meals are always bait! And so one should know that those offering free stuff are the Hunters and those receiving free stuff are the Prey.

  And the Hunter always demeans those who speak out against their hunting of humans, whether in f
lesh, as souls or spirits. And so he defends his right to bait and thereby add to his collection those ensnared because they are owed stuff.

  And so it follows that one must always defend self, family, community and your sanity as well as the sanity of others. Without the right to our own sanity, we can be deemed insane by merely being accused of demonstrating some emotion, some upset, some momentary outburst.

  With such a crime committed one-n-all can be medicated into zombie-like deadness and soon all are walking vegetables.

  All that is needed is for one to be found emotionally disturbed and therefore, dangerous to self and others—by law.

  Sadness, anger, fear, happiness, too much cheerfulness, antagonism, grief, regret, apathy, frustration—any such natural feeling could be deemed insane. So too can any reaction or emotion be legislated and named a disease and thereby require drug therapy or time in a quiet and secure facility. One with locked doors and bars on the windows and there to allow others to observe you and all—for your own well-being.

  Those observers will tend to earn a living caring for sufferers just like you. They will surely want many to care for. One could say they have a stake in finding you emotionally disturbed, unstable, in need of medication, quiet cells, and observation.

  And who knows what they will make you into with drugs and their side-effects. It happened back on Earth-Born many centuries ago. So vanished Earth-Born’s freedom and soon thereafter their collective sanity was buried in the cemetery of Freedoms and Rights.

  But as for now...I am not sure I will survive.

  If by fate, I don’t awake:

  Live by Neatness fellow citizens—one-n-all.

  CHAPTER 58

  Of Fever And Voices

  I awake shivering yet the sun shines. I blink several times and the sky changes from day to night and back again. I stare upwards, the Half-Day-Moon plummets from the sky, crashes to sand and waves of bright yellow sand tumble over the horizon.

  Darkness descends.

  Later.

  The Star-of-Hope shines upon me—its light cold and uncaring of events.

  Yes. Okay. It had to happen. I am quite mad, or quite dead, or quite both. It is both day and night at the same time. Am I alive as a spirit alone or is my body still part of life?

  Did Jiplee know the difference?

  I don’t.

  Perhaps in the end Jiplee found the answer—I hope I will.

  Is that why she had a smile on her lips?

  Sand laps at my cheeks followed by the soft flutter of wind through my hair. The sun bakes down. I awake hot and shivering, the sun shining from behind.

  Not a whisper of a breeze stirs sand.

  A sticky moisture clings to my eyes, my nose, my mouth.

  I wipe at it. A thick smear of blue residue drips from my fingers. I tear a piece of Bondo-Preserve bandage off and wipe it all away. By all accounts, I am alive but wretched. How I’ll escape the Highlands and reach the Lowlands I have no clue.

  My skin crinkles parched as hide too long cured. The high temperature of the Highlands is without a doubt dehydrating me. Despite the heat and to keep a firm grip on the fur coat, I work my left arm into a sleeve as well and stand up.

  On my feet, I head to the vertical edge of Iron Rock Ridge. I lie down, peer over and confirm what I already know. Falling away from the edge is an eighteen-hundred vertical sand-paces, perhaps more, climb or fall to the Lowlands below.

  I back away, sit down cross-legged, contemplate possibilities and find two options. Well, three.

  One, walk the length of Iron Ridge Mountain making my way slowly but surely up, over and along the western precipice of the Iron Ridge horseshoe to the Lowlands and die on the way.

  Two, climb down Iron Rock Ridge to the Lowlands and die upon cooler sand or with bad luck fall to my death—which latter could be considered good luck.

  Three, sit here idle until I pass away.

  There are no warm-n-fuzzy options in any direction.

  I park thinking in hopes of recovery and lying down pull the fur collar up to cover as much of my head as possible and sleep again. Some while later the deep freeze of night embraces me. Though more unconscious than asleep, I can feel my body shaking and shivering, but from fever not cold.

  Later.

  The wind blows, and I know Ozerken’s tracks are gone.

  Later.

  The fever breaks and I awake as does morning.

  Rising to my feet I scan sand.

  Off in the distance are several Crier burrows.

  A while later I reach one.

  Hunger gnaws as I wave the fan with my healing arm and lift the pouch-cover by hooking a finger under the sting-claw. I drink my fill hydrating as fast as I drink. I rest and drink again, and rest and drink again.

  Back at the cliff’s edge I sit for hours gazing at the distant Lowlands. Nothing moves down there. I lie prone intent on thinking the situation through. But my wounds break into a medley of pain. I curl up, ensure my healing arm is comfortable and allow sleep to take me from suffering.

  When I awake an inspection of my chest wounds reveals that all is not well. They are not healing and signs of gangrene are already visible. I scoop sand into the wounds, wrap them closed and hope for the best.

  Much later I awake thick and groggy but this time something woke me. I listen, but all is silent. Pain takes me away.

  I crawl up from darkness once again and lie still for again something stirred me awake.

  The hairs on my arms stand erect. I gazed about heart racing. Is it Criers or Arzerns come to feed? Both? I listen—silence except for the wind whispering a final farewell. Suddenly a voice speaks from out the sky and I know I’ve gone quite mad.

  “Once-Other dear friend. Once-Other. Are you with us honorable one?” Jenk Nordt’s voice stirs me fully awake.

  I look around and sand, wind, sun and self is all I find.

  I chuckle in insanity’s face and prepare for the final sleep.

  “My good and honorable friend Once-Other. Are you surviving dear friend of mine?”

  Is he communicating across a vast distance as impossible as that is? Surely not over Nomadi. Didn’t Wernt and those no good Desert Drivers relieve me of my sole method of communication out here?

  “Jenk? Where are you?” I send as far and wide as I can.

  “Jolly good Once-Other. I’ve hailed you some two days. Where are you?”

  “Ah, Jenk. I’m on the Highlands close to the edge of Iron Rock Ridge. A damn no good Desert Driver and that worthless Wernt left me here to die.”

  “We are appraised of conditions.”

  “You are? We?”

  “Later honorable campaigner. But for now lend unto me thine ears.” And he chuckles.

  My head swims as hope-n-despair whisper their little infidelities in my ear. But I should know better for mind tricks exist at the Gates of Death. I listen intently, but all is silent. I dismiss the voice, lie down and place out the welcome mat and unopposed, let Death enter.

  “Take this with grace please—no friend. No. I...we are...this is Jenk...I’m on the Lowlands but too far to reach you in time. Please. Please stay with me. I’m sending help. Are you tracking?”

  I embrace the voice I hear as a simple farewell gesture. Yes! Why shouldn’t my last hours be filled with pleasant, even delusional conversation? No reason at all I reason. Is madness not what takes most every EB tourist’s life despite that we blame the sun and sand?

  Let Once-Other then travel the same road and meet those earlier travelers. “I’m awake, Jenk. Speak to me. Let me enjoy these last hours talking to myself.”

  “I’m honored in receipt of your attention, Once-Other. Yet we seem set upon separate paths. How strange at this early hour you bid me farewell. Come friend. I am speaking to and with you. Considering circumstances, it appears you are a trifle disorientated. Is that so?”

  “Damn Jenk. How real you sound.”

  “Once-Other! Friend! Heed these words. I am distant
—yes. Yet I am connected as impossible as it appears. I am in desperate need of your indulgence. I beg you to converse right here and right now and altogether. I need this despite that you may consider all to be delusional. Can you oblige me my dear friend?”

  A tiny spark of hope. “Okay. Yes. Okay. I can.”

  “My deepest thanks go out across distant sand to you. Pray, tell—how far are you from Iron Rock Wellspring?”

  “More or less?”

  “More or less.”

  “Far enough to catch a whiff of CO2. Near enough to hear rocks falling.”

  “And distance to the edge of Iron Rock Ridge?”

  “About thirty some sand-paces.”

  “Excellent, Once-Other. Go there. Check left, check right. Tell me what you find, friend.”

  Quite amazed at how far I’m taking this game I drag myself over, scan east, west and down. “Rock and sand, Jenk.”

  “A no result on looking with any clarity worth mentioning. Out along the lip Once-Other. East and West but first...pull yourself together, invoke your full Foundation and perceive.”

  Fear drowns hope and I chuckle at how I’ve chided myself using Jenk as a source for my own voice. Yet, I take a minute and refresh my Foundation, clear my vision and to my surprise something appears.

  “Out west some hundreds of sand-paces stands a squarish rock, Jenk.”

  “Go to it!” the voice commands.

  I stand up and swoon.

  The flat desert and the distant horizon come together weaving a landscape of confusion. V-shaped gullies beckon; knife-like dunes invite me to slide along their cutting edges; into such I’m loath to tread. I drop back to sand, drag myself further from the edge, stand, spread my arms wide like a tightrope walker and when my head stops reeling I head for the square rock.

  “You get there yet?” Jenk asks.

  “No.”

  “Confirm when you have.”

  “Where are you Jenk?” I ask.

  “Not an unreasonable question Once-Other. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Who? What?”

  “Ozerken.”