Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

I think for a long time, but all comes up blank.

  He vanishes from my thoughts.

  Later.

  Opportunities offered and missed come knocking upon memory’s door drowning out all else. Ah. Maybe Maggie was the one. We could have spent some damn fine romantic time together had I been ready.

  She, her parents and mine, had long been friends. Friends at school, in church and out upon the sands of Here-Born challenging the elements on SandRiders so old I winch at our foolhardiness.

  Then bow in Deidre. At first warm and loving, eyes that promised more than any man could wish for. But once I took the hook the fisher-women appeared guarding her catch from any that might approach. And so Maggie drifted away though never too far and remained a friend no matter.

  Maggie’s face dances before me now. Her silky hair wafts in the breeze. Her eyes smile as they always do, beckoning me come closer. Her naturally radiant lips venture closer and her last kiss lingers upon my cheek. In my mouth the flavor of popcorn resurrects.

  I chuckle drily.

  We are still well suited one to the other—yet nothing. I had made excuses about Deidre, on the rebound, danger and all. But to be honest, none of that was ever true. I knew it. Others knew it. We all knew it yet here I am still single.

  I pull the fur coat tight around my waist and smile.

  Yes, the Old Soldier lives in my heart as well.

  What is real? What is delusion? Does survival depend on my separating them? And Karrell? Where is he now? I can but dread the circumstances he must now face.

  What strange and contradictory characters Ozerken and Pe’truss are. First, they help get me killed. Next, they help me survive and finally...they leave me here to die.

  “No matter what, regardless of where, if you need me I will come.”

  Yes. That, more-or-less, is what I’d said to Karrell. Had I said so too hastily? With too little thought? Is this the final moments of Once-Other of Here-Born?

  Karrell’s face floats into view. His peak achievement at his Moment in Time once again dissolves his eyes into pools of liquid diamonds. How proud that moment is for me, for him.

  How grand an achievement it is for him, for me.

  I lean closer the better to see his eyes and my head explodes as a tornado of pain twists within it. I stagger but manage to keep my footing and with arms held wide I stare down at sand in disbelief. After a few moments and as my boots come into focus I figure it out.

  Yes. I am standing. Yes. They are right. Once-Other hates to surrender hates to give up. How did I come to stand? I have no idea and I don’t give a damn. I take a step forward, pause and then another one.

  I know not where I go...nor how. I grasp that direction demands marching towards Karrell no matter where he is or what he has been subjected to. Along that road travels hand-in-hand our campaign. Damn right to keep going and wrong of me to consider surrender.

  I know too much. I’ve heard too much.

  I croak my defiance in a hoarse whisper, “Death! I bid thee farewell.”

  And I wave adieu to Death’s hopes.

  But I’m not sure if it’s too late.

  I examine the desert in detail.

  Several Crier burrows are close enough to reach.

  “Forward march,” I command.

  I march forward...well...stagger onwards.

  I drink and consider eating raw Crier, but pass.

  Back at the foot of Iron Rock Ridge I sit down and examine my condition to find a fire burns in my chest and my left arm creaks when I make a fist.

  I check my Nomadi to find it is cracked and broken. After a full inspection, I ascertain communications no longer work but that recording is still taking place. I nod my satisfaction and smile at those future students and others who may someday study this record. But in the minus column, there is now no way by which to find me.

  I stare upwards and soon the sun turns green.

  The moon fades to black.

  Beige clouds surround me. Rolling thunder moves sand.

  I feel it in my bones. I use its vibrations and focus.

  Out upon the horizon a sandstorm once again heads my way. This one has ovals between billowing sand and flat sand as well—but these are dark brown—not black-n-white as before.

  I gaze upwards and it’s daytime.

  Perhaps the horses have returned, and having bathed are brown.

  Though they gallop, they do so with a strange loping gait. Their heads hang low, their bellies are large and swollen and their necks extended. My nightmare becomes insanity as the horses thin and distort into wispy ghosts.

  An eyeglass appears before me. In it, shape-changing cacti dance in the heat-haze. They merge to become brown petals standing upright. The petals become horses, they shift-n-waver and separate into beige blotches. They regroup, outlines sharpen and shapes stabilize to become camels racing across sand.

  In mere moments, they plow to a halt before me blowing hard in protest at having galloped under Here-Born’s sun.

  Camel toes shuffle, necks crane, eyes blink.

  Voices murmur, someone coughs but silence descends by command of a powerful voice. “Hold!” a male voice declares.

  The camels stare at me as I stare at them.

  One ambles on over, stops when close, lays its head upon sand, stares me in the eye and laughs as though enjoying one damn fine joke.

  I glare long and hard trying to rationalize what I see for camels ordinarily, do not laugh and neither do they evolve from horses.

  I rub my eyes and focus. Ah!

  A man is laughing.

  He peers around the camel’s neck and his deep black eyes are crying—he is laughing that hard.

  I for one am not amused.

  “Take him,” he commands and hands lift me.

  At first I fight them but cease as water touches my lips. I pull in a mouth full and swallow. I reach for more, but they take it away. Someone smears a fatty compound over the blisters and gashes on my face and legs. Foul smelling though soothing it is.

  A wet blanket appears and wraps around me and much to my peace of mind, my temperature sets to dropping.

  Darkness beckons, a bony finger crooked.

  I wave it aside, reach out and embrace the gurgle of water as it splashes over the blanket. Soon I am so cold I shiver.

  CHAPTER 61

  Of Artistic Universes

  I awake to find the camels and their foul breath are gone, peace and quiet reigns. Without moving, I glance about and find I recline post-slumber-wise inside an expensive tent.

  Wool and mohair rugs in desert shades of sand-brown, beige and black cover every square sand-pace of the floor. Some are plain in color; others have geometric designs threaded into them. Soft light radiates from lamps shaped like candles. Overhead, a spiral fan stirs the air. Scattered emerald-green lounge cushions provide seating with a view of the entire tent.

  Centered in all this luxury is one damn comfortable bed upon which I lie beneath dark red covers. The comfort and opulence are not what concern me the most.

  And so I recall the Nomads with a severe degree of trepidation. Rumor says they treat you with grace on first acquaintance, keep one well fed, hydrated, bring you back to health and up to weight and cook and eat you.

  My heart pounds despite trying to calm internal rants.

  I sit up, spot my clothes and am about to embark upon an escape when from outside comes the shuffle of shoes upon sand. I pretend to sleep.

  The tent flap moves.

  Eyes half-closed I watch from behind my eyelashes.

  A nomad female enters and stops just beyond the entrance.

  I am all of a sudden ravaged by hot-n-cold, which has nothing to do with the other fevers plaguing me. I open my eyes fully to better see her face and am struck by a greater assault of hot-n-cold. Thoughts and excuses involving Deidre and on the rebound vanish in a blinding Fragger like flash.

  She is dressed in a cream, single-piece silk suit that clings as though a natu
ral part of her. Steam rises from a golden bowl she holds in delicate hands. Draped over the edge is a white facecloth. Under her left arm, she grips a green bottle of liquid soft-soap, over her shoulder hangs a tan towel and in her eyes a smile awaits presentation.

  It lights and Once-Other, the poet long buried, is reborn.

  My heart skips and sings and accelerates for her smile was made in heaven with love and care. Around it her golden brown hair glows a halo of wonder and health. Never in all of time has a smile said as much with so little, to but one. Never in all my time have I wished to be smiled at over-n-over.

  A breeze touches her revealing partial lines of her beauty beneath.

  I gaze up in search of her eyes to find them watching me, and I understand with a profound and desperate need that I must look into their emerald beauty every day for the rest of my life. I can have no meaningful life without engaging them each morning upon waking, nor can I live without saying goodnight to them every night for the Light of Life lives in them.

  Life and light dance and twinkle there so powerfully that any may behold their dance, but only a few will understand.

  Here they say, we present for your consideration a free spirit. One with no wish to be owned by another and who has no desire to own another. Yet they glow with an abundance of love. Until this moment, I had not known what nor whom I had been looking for—for all my life.

  I continue to stare.

  She allows me the privilege and time to do so. All the while she remains poised, calm, neither challenging nor demeaning of my looking.

  In return, she examines me.

  Finally, our eyes meet head on and in that instant, a new universe is born. A personal one, one not of the physical universe nor any other, yet we occupy it. Beyond our presence, it’s empty—but a different kind of empty. Nothing is missing for there has never been anything inside it. Instead, it’s a new canvas created for a single lifelong work of art.

  Together we are the artist.

  The brushes and paints in a multitude of colors, textures and hues are the emotions and adventures of a life together. Colors are of courage, of love, of achievement, of goals attained, of friends and children held, loved and departed. Of quiet moments together. Of raging battles of will. Of battles of war but always...of two artists and a single painting.

  She glides forward, a breeze across the landscape of cushions and carpets. She places the basin down, looks me in the eye, smiles and touches my injured arm now wrapped in clean Bondo-Preserve bandages.

  I boil-over and am quite convinced steam is rising from the top of my head. Amongst all these raging emotions I realize there has been no Neatness in my conduct, to one degree or another. So far I’ve said nothing. No, thank you. Not where am I? Not who are you? Not how did I get here?

  Most assuredly, I have stared my fill. “Thank you for this magnificent tent in which I have just awoken,” I say.

  “Pleased to meet you Once-Other. But please, think nothing of this. You may not know it, but you are not merely some lost soul rescued from the grip of our desert. And neither are you simply a business contact of Jenk’s...but a friend of his. Jenk is part of us. Therefore, you are a part of us. Welcome.”

  “Thank you. I am honored.”

  “I’m going to wash you,” she communicates in a whisper.

  I’m both happy and genuinely afraid. On Here-Born we wash all food before cooking—positively washed and absolutely clean.

  “You will be absolutely clean,” she says, smiles mischievously, dips the cloth in the water, applies soap and looking deep into my eyes, begins.

  Her cool hands mingled with the warmth of the water whisper a cleansing breeze across my skin. Goose-bumps arise to play havoc with skin and mind. I give her a smile but a short, closed mouth one for my mouth tastes like the bottom of a birdcage—not that I know what one tastes like. In return, she blushes wonderfully and peeps sideways and shy-like at me, which makes me blush as well.

  She washes my chest with gentle care. “These bullet wounds are bad Once-Other. We are preparing some pre-owned parts from your own store to replace them. But not until you are a little stronger and the danger has lessened.”

  She touches the entry wounds, smiles and continues washing. After several minutes, she all of a sudden gives me a bold glance and leans in closer.

  Her closeness is both familiar and comforting as though we have known each other with intimacy for a long time. Deep inside, hidden from all others and perhaps even self, Once-Other the survivor hopes she’s not looking hungry like at him and mentally thumbing through her repertoire of recipes.

  Despite this fear, I am reminded of my youth. Many times I’d stopped and stared and stared. Often, the lady stopped as well but we both moved on...something was wrong or missing.

  Now I understand.

  She glances hard at me, decides something and says, “Are you married Once-Other? I’ve heard no—but I’m curious to hear from you.”

  I lie in silence stunned by her question.

  She waits her hand poised to continue.

  “I have been single a long time,” I reply.

  “Ah. How long so?”

  “Recently dawned upon me that when I was married...I was yet single.”

  “How recent did that dawn upon you?” she asks.

  “Moments ago.”

  She nods and says, “You must engage many girlfriends amongst your own. So many as to occupy all your attention...and stamina.”

  “Well no,” I gasp.

  “Are you playing with me? Taking advantage of a simple Nomad girl?”

  “No!” I cry out.

  She leans in close, gazes into my eyes, down to the I within and melds with me. After a moment, she pulls back and her smile curves the first brush stroke upon our canvas.

  Mine the second.

  I am lost to despair when she finishes up, gathers the basin, the soap, the face cloth and towel, nods to me, heads for the exit and pauses.

  “We have our customs and if you wish—I can initiate them?”

  “Any trials by danger?” I ask.

  “Perhaps we Nomad women are danger enough,” she says and smiles.

  Swirling pain engulfs me.

  I force myself to find her through it and she’s still standing there. I nod yes or hope I did.

  “Sleep well Once-Other.”

  Pain assaults me and when I again focus she’s gone.

  I lie back to the rustle of clothes at the entrance once again. At first, I’m disappointed to find a different Nomad female standing where she had. Secondly, I whisper to myself, “Most beloved Half-Day-Moon, save me.”

  This one towers fearsome large, muscular all over and her face glowers like the dark side of the Half-Day-Moon. She smiles and magnificent flat-edged teeth display—teeth well suited to chewing meat—any meat.

  She steps cautiously closer and checks me over. Wipes large hands on a red desert-suit as though unsure of herself, and sighs deeply. Pushing deep-red hair off her face she takes a step closer and her emerald eyes twinkle as she says, “My daughter likes you more than I can understand.”

  Praise be all sand, heavens, the Half-Day-Moon, the Star-of-Hope and preservatives for this frightening individual gave birth to my heavenly designed beauty to whom I’d just surrendered my heart. I try a smile but fail to mount it.

  Nevertheless, her eyes brighten, she rushes over, grasps my hand in a painful manner and asks, “Do you like her?”

  Once-Other can only think of her calloused hand that holds his and nod an honest yes. She gives my hand a squeeze.

  Sharp nails shoot up my arm into and then out of the top of my skull. Damn! This woman does not know her own strength.

  She smiles at me.

  “Call me Dew,” she says. “Everyone does.”

  She waves to someone outside and releases my hand.

  “She has many sisters,” she says grinning hugely, proudly.

  She hurries out as they enter in a flurry of smi
ling faces. Their desert suits too are of silk and their eyes glow in mixtures of black and emerald.

  They stand ooh-ing and ah-ing then set upon me.

  Their touch is as soft and light as a delicate film of sand upon an arm. But I’m once again afraid when they poke at and measure my limbs. It strikes me they measure for the pot and with a poke here-n-there are looking for where best to dismember.

  In one fluid motion, they turn me over, poke at my behind and laugh real loud when someone tickles my foot. They hold me down with much shushing-n-hushing followed by some subtle stroking.

  I smile my pleasure, but the heartbeat calling for immediate escape returns when they measure me this way round as well. They roll me back-n-forth, laugh some and shush each other while continuing to measure-n-poke when, without warning, all are silent.

  At the entrance stands Dew smiling from ear to ear. She glances outside, nods to someone, takes a step sideways and waits.

  A magnificent tower of a Nomad man with straight black hair and deep brown eyes staring from out a handsome desert hardened face steps into the tent. They are the same eyes that had laughed when I lay at the foot of Iron Rock Ridge.

  He stands alone for a moment his arms crossed, his dark brown and black desert-suit tight on his tall, lean frame. Not a single grain of sand mars his knee-high black boots.

  She enters, stands next to him and when she smiles my heart skips several beats and melts. She perceives this and her face reflects her own heart’s smile. She takes his arm and pushes him towards me.

  He hesitates, steps closer and says, “My name’s Benwarr.”

  He glances at her and she waves him on.

  “But to the point Once-Other. Our customs typically require....” He glances at her again.

  She waves fiercely.

  “Well. What I’m to say would under ordinary circumstances take many months—at times years before being mentioned. Months of casual acquaintance. But...in these days, due to conflict between worlds, with lives at risk, with casualties already...we no longer wait.”

  He glances her way again and she waves him on once more.

  “Now Once-Other. My daughter wishes to commit to you. Do you wish to commit her? No. Damn and wait. I’m not getting this right. Okay. First, and in clarity’s direction, we are not talking marriage. To commit simply allows two individuals to develop a relationship—something we Nomads require under our concepts of Neatness. Well? What do you say?”