Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Don P. Bick

  Chapter 5

  I reach the river again just after noon and follow as it wends its way north, taking my time. My hip aches, but it is manageable, and I know better than to race. Time invested in healing now will pay off dividends in faster travel in only a day or two.

  I soak in the beauty of the landscape – the rising grey bluffs to the east; the stretch of prairie past the river to the west. Meadowlarks dart out from a stand of birch, while pied-bill grebes paddle in a quiet corner of the river, going tail-up in search of small fish. I’m reminded that Ragnor had called this realm a wasteland. To me it is a place of stunning richness.

  By late afternoon my step has slowed to a point where I consider stopping for the day. No need to push myself too hard. Perhaps just a short distance further, to seek out a quiet hollow to provide some shelter.

  I come around a corner and blink in surprise.

  There, ahead of me, the river takes a short jog sharply west, then makes a large loop around to come back to its course again. The eastern side of this circle is a tall bluff, with a grassy ridge along its crest. In the center of this natural island lays a neat collection of tannish-white teepees. Delicate spirals of smoke trail up from them. A small herd of appaloosa horses is tucked away to its west, safely within the curve of the river.

  I go still, quite sure that their scouts have already spied me. To retreat now would seem suspicious, and I am in no shape to fend off an attack. I roll my shoulders, take in a deep breath, then start in motion again, moving slowly but steadily toward the small village.

  The group gathers as I approach, and by the time I reach the mouth of the village a welcoming committee of sorts has formed. The tribe is dressed in a mixture of traditional and modern outfits, some buckskin tunics mixed in with cotton shirts and dark jeans. Men and women are wearing knives, revolvers, and bows in various combinations. To a person their hair is long, black, and plaited in two long braids. Young children hang further back, peering at me in interest.

  An elderly man steps forward, his face ridged with wisdom. “Welcome to Oyate,” he greets me. “Today is a special day – it is the birth day of Born-in-Battle, one of our youngest. Please, come join us.”

  A young boy, about four, with ink-dark eyes in a beautifully embroidered deer-skin tunic, runs past the adults to take my hand. He stares up at me. “Hawk!”

  A woman with the complexion of soft sienna steps forward, a gentle smile on her lips. “Come now, Born-in-Battle. Let our guest rest a while.” Her features match the youngster’s so closely that it’s clear she is his mother.

  His gaze is insistent on me. “Hawk!”

  I bring my eyes up to his mother in curiosity. “Hawk?”

  Her eyes hold mine with quiet placidity. “The embroidery on your jacket,” she points out.

  I glance down and nod. I’d forgotten completely about that.

  The child pulls on my hand with steady effort. “Come! Come!”

  I smile, then allow myself to be led to the center of the village, where blankets have been spread. There are carved wooden bowls full of fragrant gruel, platters of roast pheasant, a stew of catfish, and numerous other offerings. My stomach growls loudly, and the woman smiles.

  I take the indicated seat, and others return to their own locations, taking up the meal that my presence had apparently interrupted. The child is close at my side, peering at the beads on my jacket, at the guns at my hip. His look is bright and curious, and I find myself smiling at his ready enthusiasm.

  The mother passes me a bowl of fried prairie turnips, and the delicious aroma sets my mouth watering. I take one and bring it to my lips. It tastes just as good as it smells.

  Born-in-Battle’s eyes follow my hand, and his gaze lights on the hook bracelet I wear on my wrist. He is transfixed.

  “Pretty!”

  I tuck the last bit of prairie turnip into my mouth, then lower my wrist so he can see it more closely. He turns it around, staring at it with fascination.

  I look to his mother in concern. “The barbs are sharp,” I warn her.

  She smiles at that, then looks down at her son. “Born-in-Battle, show Hawk your knife.”

  The lad dutifully reaches to his hip and draws out the small dagger worn in a leather sheath. He takes it in both hands and presents it to me.

  I lift the blade and run a finger along its edge. No toy, here. The child could be lethal if he chose to be. I nod and return his knife to him, which he deftly tucks back into its place.

  I undo my bracelet and present it to him. “Happy birthday, Born-in-Battle.”

  His mouth turns into a round O of delight, and in seconds he has latched it closed around his wrist. It hangs loose, but he tilts his arm up to hold it in place, then circles the ring of people with pride, showing it off to each person in turn.

  His mother smiles at me, nodding. “Thank you, that was kind of you.”

  I look at the wealth of food before me and take a sip of the apple cider. “It was kind of you to allow a stranger into your celebration,” I respond.

  She turns as a plate of elk is passed to her. She takes the knife from her hip, saws off a small portion, then tucks the meat into her mouth. She turns to pass the plate to me.

  I put it down before me, then my face flames. The only blade I have on me is the spoon shiv I took off of Ragnor’s corpse. It feels quite inappropriate to bring that out in the middle of this child’s party.

  The mother’s eyes drop to my hip, and her brow creases slightly. “You have no knife?”

  She says it in the same tone that one might say they had lost a leg.

  I am formulating a response when her hand moves to her belt. She removes the leather scabbard and knife which hang there. She lays them across both hands and presents them to me.

  “Here.”

  I look from the scabbard to her in surprise. The scabbard is clearly a labor of love, with circling spirals tracing along its edges. The hilt of the blade is leather wrapped, and I had seen how sharp the edge was when she cut her meat.

  I shake my head. “I cannot accept that.”

  All eyes turn to look at me, and her gaze is steadfast. “Here.”

  I flush. Perhaps turning her down would be the gravest of insults. I feel the pressure of the many eyes, and at last I bow, accepting the blade.

  “I will treasure this beyond all words,” I thank her.

  A soft smile lights her eyes, and she nods.

  The boy has circled back around to us and plunks merrily into his mother’s lap, gazing in fascinating at his hook bracelet. I eat several pieces of the tender elk, appreciating the fragrant seasoning of rosemary which flavors it.

  He gazes up at me suddenly. “Ishtato.”

  My breath catches, to hear the word on the young boy’s lips. “What?”

  “Ishtato,” he insists.

  I look to his mother, my heart hammering like a woodpecker’s eager tattoo. “What does that mean?”

  Again her eyes move tranquilly to the beadwork at my chest. “It means green eyes,” she explains.

  I look down at the beaded hawks. I realize it is true – each of their small forms features a dark green eye.

  The boy nods in satisfaction. “Ishtato.” He sits back against his mother, his eyes dropping to his bracelet, spinning it in slow circles on his wrist.

  The evening passes in the quiet drifting of billowy clouds across an azure sky. The villagers do not ask anything of me, and I am content to let them talk amongst themselves, of harvesting corn and storing squash. My eyes glance to the ridge of bluffs, high to the east, to the grassy line which makes up the length. I wonder if that is where the attack came from, when Born-in-Battle earned his name.

  At last the plates are being gathered and cleared, and I draw to my feet. I feel comfortable here, but I also feel the sense of unease in the group of the armed stranger in their midst. It was kind for them to share their food with me; I would not intrude on their peace further.

  I bow to the mother and
to the group. “Thank you again for your hospitality. May you have peace and a good winter.”

  Her eyes hold mine. “May your journey bring you what you seek.”

  Born-in-Battle runs forward, and I ease carefully to one knee, my hand holding my hip to keep the bandage in place. He wraps me in a hug, and I give him a fond pat on the head.

  I look down at the bracelet. “Take good care of that.”

  He nods with enthusiasm. “I will!”

  I feel a sense of emptiness as I turn my back on them, crossing to the western side of the river and walking north. Soon it is only me and the whistling wind, and a hawk which circles high overhead.

  I make it about an hour further before I am fully exhausted. I feel I could trust the tribe, but it seems prudent not to camp right on their doorstep. I have come across a series of low caves in the bluffs, and one of them seems just right for a safe sleeping spot.

  The sun slips below the horizon, and while I consider a fire, I decide against it. No need to attract more attention than necessary, and the night only had a slight chill to it. I draw my leather jacket closer around my shoulders, running my fingers along the beadwork for a moment before closing my eyes.

  The large, brown eyes of a child gaze up at me in trust, his skin the glowing color of the river’s bluff in a crimson sunset. Flecks of darker brown swim in the depths of his eyes.

  Flecks of movement are spotted across the grassy plains, and I strain to see them against the stand of trees. I am lying flat on my stomach, pressed against the ridge, and I know danger is a breath away. The barrel of a rifle slides forward on my right, aimed at the distant shadows. I turn –

  I am stirred out of a deep sleep by something I cannot put my finger on. The mouth of the cave is pitch black, with no moon or stars glimmering in the sky above. I lay perfectly still, my breathing in even rhythm, all senses alert.

  There – a movement in the cave mouth.

  My heart thunders, and yet I do not move an inch. I resist the urge to reach my hand for the gun resting only a short distance away.

  A man steps forward into the arch. He is perhaps six feet tall, with shaggy, dark hair past his shoulders. His skin is the warmth of a cliff-side bluff in a late autumn afternoon. His eyes are the cool, welcoming green of a deep pine forest.

  Longing sweeps through me, and I draw in a breath.

  His eyes narrow in surprise, and he’s gone.

  I blink, grab for the gun, and push myself to standing, fighting back a groan at the resistance in my hip. Carefully I creep to the mouth of the cave, peering out.

  There is no trace of him at all. It is as if he never existed.

  There’s a tingling at my chest, and I look down in surprise. I realize now that the pouch had been doing this since I woke; perhaps this was what drew me from sleep. I glance around again, then holster my gun and draw open the pouch. I shake the red capsule out into my palm.

  It’s sparkling oddly, spastically, with an almost mesmerizing light.

  I move back into the cave, so that its gleam does not attract unwanted attention. The deeper I go, the more strange the sparkling becomes. Fainter. Feebler.

  I smile. Maybe this is my chance. If something about the cave naturally interferes with the transmitter, then they might simply think that I holed up in the cave and decided to live there. It could be months before they came in after me, if they even ever did. By then I could be long gone.

  I could be safely through that final gate, without a hail of machine gun fire cutting off my dream of escape.

  A frown creases my forehead. If the automated deathtrap did not trigger, I should be able to step to the gate. But would the guards there have an identity check, verifying me before they released me to freedom? Would they realize at that point that I should not be allowed through and end my quest permanently?

  I shrug. There is only so much I can plan for. One step at a time.

  I quickly gather up wood for a fire, and once I get it going, I make a small torch and move toward the back of the cave. It narrows into a rough-edged tunnel. I work my way down it, wriggling in several sections to make it through the slender gaps.

  This is perfect. The Wardens will never think twice about my being in these areas.

  The chamber opens up before me into a large gulf, so wide that my torchlight cannot reach the other side. Noises echo strangely off the slick walls. I carefully step across the rough surface.

  Suddenly a chasm yawns before me. I reach down and pick up a small pebble, tossing it in. It bounces from side to side on its way down; its pinging fades as it descends. At last it becomes lost in the depths.

  My smile grows.

  I take a final look at the cylinder in my hand, at the light which barely makes the smallest of glimmers now. And then, with a flick, it is gone.

  It makes not a sound as it plummets into the abyss.

  My shoulders ease in relief. I am free now of the tracker, free of the ‘Red’ stigma should I come across any other towns with sensors. Another two weeks or so and I should be at the Gate, then through it.

  I turn and start in surprise.

  A pair of dark eyes are staring at me without emotion.

  I grab for my gun, draw and aim in one smooth motion.

  The eyes have not moved a muscle. Not flinched a millimeter.

  I draw in a breath, my gaze focusing in the dark shadows. The shapes resolve … refine …

  The eyes are hollows in a skull. The skeleton is beneath it, the ribs sagging, one leg bent at a nasty angle. Undoubtedly the owner had come into here for some reason and hurt himself. He became unable to get out again.

  I step forward to look him over. His clothes are ratty and torn, and he has no gun on him. A rectangular leather pouch with a silver buckle sits next to him, about the size of a man’s foot.

  Curious, I undo the buckle and peer inside.

  The pouch is full to the brim with small silver nuggets.

  I run my finger through them, stirring them gently, a smile coming to my lips. Perhaps I won’t need to conserve my bullets, after all. In fact, with my injury, it might just be time to invest in a horse.