Never Fear

by William F. Nolan

  Tag pointed at the tumble of wood and aluminum up ahead. “Not too far. Listen, Mr. Peregrine, how’d you survive? All that moving around and all. How’d these other people, all those you’ve seen, how’d they make it?”

  “I don’t know. Lucky, I guess. Same as you, right? I don’t mean to say that I ain’t seen a lot of people kicked off, ‘cause I have.”

  “Kicked off?”

  Peregrine stopped, grabbed himself by the throat in a grotesque pantomime, stuck out his tongue, rolled his eyes. “You know—dead.”

  “Oh,” said Tag, as if grasping some arcane truth. This was an odd character, this Peregrine. Tag didn’t know what to make of his ways yet.

  “Yeah, it was them germs that turned you yellow. That stuff got out in the world after the impact. Plague, they said. I guess me not gettin’ it was just bein’ lucky.”

  Tag stepped ahead and opened the door to his shelter. “I figured that. It didn’t take long for everybody to die off out here.”

  He paused to look back at Peregrine’s cart. “You have anything in there you want to bring in?”

  “Naw, ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of shit anyway,” said the old man. “Besides, there ain’t nobody around to bother it, right?” He threw back his head and cackled his unsettling laugh once again.

  Tag gave him a mug of water and offered him some pickled vegetables, which Peregrine accepted and spooned out with his fingers. He ate with abandon, no discernible manners, and lots of noise. “Stuff’s not bad,” he said finally, wiping a rivulet of juice from his chin to the edge of his ragged sleeve.

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “It was one of the industries we did out here. Agricultural preserves were fairly self-sufficient. We didn’t really need the cities.”

  “How long you been out here by yourself?”

  “A while now—since I was seventeen or so. My mom died then.”

  “So you’ve been alone ever since? Nobody to talk to, just you and all this busted-up farm stuff, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tag

  “This hovel here’s all you got left?”

  “Before I was born, they had some kind of trouble here at the preserve. People needed food. My parents and the other people worked here—they had to fight them for it.”

  “And they enjoyed a Pyrrhic victory, did they?”

  “Huh?” said Tag.

  Peregrine snorted. “Just an old phrase. Wouldn’t mean much to you. By the time the fightin’ was over, everything they were fightin’ for was destroyed anyway.”

  “I guess that’s about the size of it…”

  “The dummies!” said the old man. “What a bunch of beauties we were, huh?”

  “So I figure it.”

  “What was you doin’ on that windmill when I came up? You like to sit up there or something?”

  Tag smiled. “No, I was putting gears on the shaft. Trying to get back some electrical power. I’d had it for years. I’m kinda good at mechanical stuff. It broke but I can probably fix it.”

  Peregrine laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Tag felt insulted, but didn’t know why.

  “Why bother with that fool thing? Why not come along with me and we’ll find all the power we need?”

  “Power? Where?”

  “Where I’m going, of course. To uh… uh, to Oz, yeah, that’s the ticket,” he said triumphantly, waving his hand with a flourish.

  “Oz? Where’s that?”

  “I figures you’d not heared of it.” Peregrine grinned a lopsided grin. “Well, it’s like this. East of here there’s this magical kingdom that’s got started. It’s a funny little place. Got all different types vying for control and all that. Good and evil—stuff like that. And of course. They got themselves a wizard… “

  “I never heard of any place like that. What’s a ‘wizard’?”

  “Haven’t you heard of anything, boy? Didn’t anybody ever read to you as a kid? Or tell you stories?”

  “We didn’t have much time for reading, sir. And we didn’t have many books, either.”

  “I’m gettin’ that picture,” said Peregrine.

  “So what’s a wizard?”

  “That’s a fellow who can control all sorts of forces. A kinda boss, like.”

  “How far east did you say this place is?”

  “I didn’t.” Peregrine guffawed, slapping his knee.

  “Well, how about telling me?”

  “Why, you thinkin’ you might like to go with me?”

  “Maybe,” said Tag, weighing the possibilities. It certainly wasn’t much of a life scraping along in the ruins as he’d been doing. “Does this Wizard have electricity?”

  “Coming out of his ears!” cried Peregrine.

  “What?”

  “Just an expression. That means yes. He’s got plenty of it.”

  “Oh… well, what about food? Does he have plenty of food? And music? Do they have music?”

  “Sure they got food,” said Peregrine. “But music? What’s with the music? You like music?”

  Tag nodded. “The one thing we did have, that I remember growing up, was music. Even when things were bad, we had music. I’d just about give anything to hear somebody sing, to see people dance.”

  “Oh, yeah, I see… well, of course, the Wizard’s got music. I hear he plays the stuff all the time.”

  “Really?”

  Peregrine nodded. “But that’s not all they got. I hear the women in Oz are the best on the whole planet!”

  “Really…?”

  Peregrine looked at him warily. “Ah hah! Yeah, you know, women, dontcha?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Tag, “I haven’t seen a woman in… Well… a long time.”

  “I can understand that, son.”

  “But it got so I used to think that maybe there wasn’t anybody else alive but me.”

  “Well, that’s not true. Believe-you-me. How about some more of them pickled beets?”

  “But if you say this Oz place has people… some of them women… well, that’s something I haven’t thought about much. Well, no, that’s not true—I have thought about it—women, I mean—but not the possibility of ever finding any…”

  “That don’t surprise me… livin’ out here like Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nobody you need to know. How ‘bout them beets?”

  Tag fetched another canister, opened it, and handed it to the old man, who greedily stuffed several slabs into his mouth.

  Tag watched him in silence for a while, trying to piece together the odd parts comprising this stranger. It was so different, so exciting in a passive sort of way, just to be talking with another human being, that their conversation had almost been secondary. But in the brief silence while the old man slurped down a few more beets, Tag reviewed the content of Peregrine’s words more carefully. That there were others alive heartened him. That places where men and women had not only survived the plague, the thing they’d called the Yellow Death, but were actually living constructive communal lives, rekindled a hope he’d long thought dead.

  “When you gonna be leaving?” he asked finally.

  The old man threw the canister into the fireplace, lay back in his seat against the wall, and exhaled loudly. He looked ready to fall asleep, but addressed the question.

  “Well, I don’t exactly know. I wasn’t plannin’ to find anybody here and was just figurin’ to stay the night and move on. But since you been so hospitable and all that, I just might be persuaded to stay on for a day or so.”

  “Oh, I see. But what about Oz? Didn’t you say you were going to Oz?”

  “Well… yeah… I reckon.”

  “Well how far is it from here? How long will it take you to get there?”

  “Now I’m afraid you got me on that one, son. Seeing’s how I never been there, I don’t rightly know. ‘Course, I don’t expect it would take more than a week—going by what I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve never been
there? The way you were talking, I thought for sure you had.”

  “Naw, I haven’t. But I talked to a lot of people that have and they all say such wonderful things about it, I figure I’ve just got to check it out for myself.”

  “I see. Well if you’re serious about me coming along, do you mind staying a few days until I can think about it?”

  Peregrine brightened, smiled, and sat up slightly. “Why sure! I’d be glad to stay a few days. I ain’t on no schedule. What’s a day one way or the other, right?”

  Tag smiled and took a sip of tea. The room seemed warmer as he sat basking in the glow of another’s presence—even an odorous, unmannerly old coot like Peregrine. “All right then, Mr. Peregrine. You’re welcome to everything that’s here. You can sleep over there. I’ll fix you up a place tonight, after supper. Right now, though, I think I want to finish that mill. Just in case I decide not to go with you, I want to have some power out here.”

  “Suit yourself, son. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a little snooze. It’s been a long and weary road for me.”

  Peregrine slumped over on the floor and curled up like a scruffy old dog. Tag smiled and washed out his mug. He banked the coals in the hearth, and returned outside to be greeted by a cold sky of indifference.

  ***

  Later that evening, after Tag had prepared a large meal, Peregrine went out to his cart and carried in an armful of odd things. There was a small package of cards with numbers and symbols, plus a few with pictures of men and women on them. Peregrine was able to make these cards dance between his fingers very quickly and rearrange themselves into what appeared to be random positions. From this arrangement, he performed tricks that ranged from apparent telepathic ability to obvious sleight-of-hand exercises. Peregrine also knew many kinds of amusements to play with these cards, eventually teaching Tag the games of poker, blackjack and tunc. They played for canisters of preserved food, and before the evening was over, Peregrine had a large mound of jars stacked by his chair at the table.

  But they enjoyed other diversions as well. Peregrine’s cart turned out to be a treasure chest of oddments from a civilization rattling down entropy’s highway. There were holograms of people and places he had never seen. Exotic tobaccos, liquors, drugs, soaps, oils, essences, herbs, spices, books, tools, weapons no longer functional, pieces of equipment even Peregrine could not identify. All of these things, he said, were gifts from the various famous personages he claimed to have met in this travels. That some exhibited severe damage became the impetus for yet another tale of wonder. Peregrine always regaled his tales with a smooth, fluid delivery almost too accommodating, too easy. It was as if the old man sometimes knew ahead of time what questions Tag would put to him, so rapidly and thoroughly could he provide all-sustaining answers. Still, throughout the evening, Tag remained a captive within the magical aura of the old man’s company.

  When the scrap wood in the hearth burned low and the lamps sucked the last of the oil into their wicks, Tag felt reluctant to sleep. Scarcely had he blown out the light when the bellows-like regularity of Peregrine’s snoring punctuated the night. It burst through the darkness in rattling wheezes, soon painfully anticipated. But the old man’s breathing did not keep Tag awake as much as his Peregrine’s very presence, his existence. The young man lay awake for uncounted hours, trying to order all he had been told that day, trying to fit everything into a logical frame of reference.

  Was it true other parts of the continent still thrived and carried on the pretense, if not the business, of civilization? Then why was there no power in the subterranean cables? Why had no one come from any of the urban complexes to help rebuild the preserves? If there were people, then they would most surely need the agricultural centers to live.

  And then there was the idea of finally finding a woman.

  If there was anything that could make him leave the relative security of his enclave, it was the promise of a companion.

  He believed it could be as Peregrine described. That men had grouped into smaller bands, formed little principalities, little “kingdoms” as he called them. They no longer saw need for the larger urban complexes and the preserve system. Anything, Tag concluded, was possible in a world populated by creatures as strange as men. For now, he would have to be satisfied to know one simple truth: other men and other places still existed.

  Even a place called Oz.

  ***

  The next day, Tag completed the gearing on the windmill and tried to piece together a new belt-drive system from cannibalized machines and children’s toys. Peregrine watched this operation intently, although he offered no assistance other than verbal assurances Tag displayed the skills of a born mechanic. By afternoon, the sky pirouetted across the plains dressed in heavy clouds. The dust and dirt buffeted them as they fled into Tag’s shelter like rodents burrowing into their mounds.

  Tag kept a fire going as he listened to the latest of Peregrine’s tales—this one about a wondrous ship called the Nautilus, wherein he had sailed from one coast of North America to the other by way of a place called Tierra del Fuego.

  “How come you didn’t stay with Captain Nemo?” Tag asked as Peregrine’s tale finally wound to an inconclusive finish.

  “Why should I? When I hadn’t yet been to Oz?” said the old man with a lilt in his voice. “Everybody should see Oz at least once. The Captain even told me that. Besides, the Wizard can help people. That’s the biggest reason why people want to go there. He can do… why, just about anything.”

  Tag scoffed at this last remark and Peregrine stamped a foot on the wood floor. “It’s true, Goddammit! Look, you just name something that you want, and I’ll betcha the Wizard could give it to you.”

  “Why would he want to give me anything?”

  “'Cause he’s the Wizard!” sputtered Peregrine. “'Cause… that’s his job!” He grinned, beaming with a glow of self-satisfaction.

  Tag paused, thinking of something he might get from the Wizard. “Could he teach me to make music?” asked Tag abruptly.

  “Hell, yeah! That’s no big deal.”

  “Really? Could I learn to play the autar?”

  “Autar! Hell, you could learn to play anything. Everything! Make music all the time, you could.”

  Tag sat back in this chair, gazing unseeing into the ceiling rafters. Maybe he should go with Peregrine. It felt so good to be talking again, to be trading ideas, even to argue occasionally. In Oz, there would be thousands of people to meet, to enjoy, to despise, to love. There would be music and maybe even a lady for him.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” said Tag, “Maybe I’ll go with you. To Oz, I mean.”

  Peregrine sat up, his furry eyebrows suddenly knotted up tight over his small eyes. Something akin to surprise capered there.

  “You will?”

  “Yes, you’ve convinced me there’s nothing here for me. Nothing but loneliness, and quiet. Nothing, really.”

  “You sure about this, son?”

  “Yes, I think I am. We can leave whenever you’re ready. But morning’s okay with me. The storm’ll have passed by then.”

  “Morning? Oh, sure. That’ll be fine. Sure, son, we can leave right after sun-up. Now, how about a little seven-card stud?”

  “Right now? Don’t you want to talk about leaving?”

  “Plenty of time for that,” said Peregrine. “If we’re going to be leavin’ this place, we may’s well get in a few hands with a roof over our heads ‘fore we do. He reached into his baggy jacket pocket and produced a gilt-edged deck. “Deuces wild?”

  Before Tag answered, the old man started dealing the cards.

  The hours faded away like drifting smoke as they played. Neither man spoke, other than to bet his hand or exclaim upon the luck of the cards. Tag wondered why Peregrine had become so strangely silent. There was a look in his black eyes indicating the old man’s thoughts may not be on his game.

  The next morning, Peregrine puttered about his cart. He had been reluct
ant to part with some of his trinkets, even though room was needed for some of Tag’s food stocks, tools, and the one projectile gun still functioning. Peregrine insisted on bringing along the weapon. There were still half-crazed animals out there; some were mutations, some still dying from diseases. A lot easier to deal with the unexpected when protected, Peregrine had said. And so they loaded up the cart and began pulling it behind them on their trek into the east.

  Within several hours they had passed the farthest boundaries of the preserve, and the blackened, blighted soil stretched beyond their path until it touched a gray swath across the land. “That’s one of the connecting arteries,” Tag said, pointing to the deserted road.

  “Where’d it go?” Peregrine shaded his eyes despite the cold gray helmet of sky above them.

  “Another preserve. Eventually it cuts east to the Botaneering Complex.”

  “The what?”

  “Where they conducted experiments on plant life. They’d succeeded in cultivating all kinds of mutations. Actually designed their own vegetables. Just like people, I hear.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard about that kind of shit. Good riddance, I say.” Peregrine hacked up a mouthful of phlegm and hurled it into the wind. “Damn bastards had to fool with everything. Couldn’t leave nothin’ be. Even the plants.”

  “It might be easier if we stayed on the artery,” said Tag. “It bends east pretty soon and that’s the direction you want to be going in, right?”

  Peregrine nodded and they headed for the road. Tag pulled the cart behind him, grateful to drag the rig up over the shoulder of the roadway, where the tires could roll smoothly. The old man seemed to be as fresh as when they had started, but Tag struggled with pain and exhaustion in every muscle. His knees, the soles of his feet, his calves, all on fire. Occasionally he needed to stop for a few moment’s rest, while Peregrine taunted him and suggested that maybe he should go back to his fruit cellar and stay there.

  When they stopped at sundown, Tag estimated they had traveled perhaps 60 keys. As he prepared a small fire, Peregrine sat on a flat rock, playing with a double-sided disk attached to a string. The old man would whistle and sing to himself as he made the object roll up and down the string which he’d attached to his index finger.