The Old Man and the Wasteland. Nick Cole

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СКАЧАТЬ and the worst kind of luck. The wasteland was new. It was unknown. In a few hours, by nightfall, he would be farther than anyone had tell of in the depths of the wasteland. If anything, that was something.

      So why did the dream bother you? It’s noon, so speak it now and be done with it so the child does not return tonight.

      Ahead, the wasteland fell deeper into a series of white dunes, and The Old man entered them, weaving about the floor of them rather than climbing to the top of each.

      I’ll do my best to keep a rough bearing north and maybe a little east. I’ll need water soon.

      East is curst.

      Then my curse and the curse of the east will cancel each other out.

      He couldn’t remember what that was called; it was a law or something, something he had once learned in school.

      How strange, he thought in the silence between the dunes. School. To think, once I attended a school. An elementary school, a school after that and then even a high school. College. I couldn’t even begin to explain school to the young of the village.

      I am thinking too much. That is why I had the dream of the child. Too many things are coming up from the past and it is making my mind race. The silence of the wasteland is good for thinking.

      You must think about water and salvage. You can’t just think about the past. If you don’t find water you won’t be able to find something out here and bring it back to the village.

      The shadows began to lengthen and soon the shade of the dunes became cool. Gathering stray brush he set up his camp in the lee of a long dune and soon had a fire going.

      There had not been the least sign of any salvage, anything man had made, or even the presence of man. The Old Man sat chewing a tortilla and thinking about this. Usually back near the village, even though it was the desert, there seemed to be nothing but the things of man’s past. All the collected salvage. The wrecks, the dead towns and settlements. Bones.

      But how long since anyone had been through the wasteland? It had been forty years since the bombs. The years since, reasoned The Old Man, had been too hard. Too close to the bone for anything that didn’t yield enough profit to allow survival to the next day.

      Maybe that was why there was no salvage in the wasteland.

      Staring into the fire, he thought of the child.

      Did she survive that day?

      Not if she remained on the West Coast, especially from Los Angeles to San Diego.

      But if she had survived would her life have been good?

      She would have less memories of what was lost. That is a kind of ‘good’.

      Those who survived those weeks of bombing, each one struggled with a question which determined whether they would keep salvaging or give up and die.

      What was the question?

      Can you let go of what is gone?

      I think at first I felt that I could not go on. The things I lost were too painful and I could not imagine a life without them. I remember feeling awful. All the time. But I cannot remember when I changed. When I thought of salvage. When I thought of what was today, and not of what had been or what was lost.

      For a long time he sat hugging his knees, watching the crystal of the sky turn and revolve, and when the fire had burnt down to red ash, he moved his blanket close to it and sat for a little while more, listing to it pop. Soon the sky began to grow dark. In a few nights, he thought, his last thought before sleeping, we’ll have the moon. Funny saying ‘we’ he wondered, sleeping.

Chapter Five

      There were no dreams that night and when he awoke, the sun was already well up and the heat a part of the day that could not be separated from it.

      His face was heavy from the night as though the sleep had been more fight than rest. Instantly he wanted water and knew that any drink would be his last.

      Then it will be my last.

      Draining the bottle he decided he would find the water he would need to continue the journey or that would be the end of it.

      I have in me what remains. So I have to be smart. If I dig and find no water, I will have sweated for nothing. I must find water.

      He continued on now, bearing more east than north.

      East is evil and that is why things are not going well. You should have continued north. Why are you going east?

      The dunes continued in their sandy smothering brilliance and before long he began to think of the ocean and the book.

      How would it be to have such a skiff as that in the book? To have ropes and a hand-forged hook. To catch the tuna and eat it raw with a bit of salt and lime.

      He did not have salt and limes in the book. He wanted them but he did not have them. He ate the tuna raw.

      He caught himself, sweating, almost sleeping as he walked, thinking that this was just a day at the beach, as if, in any experience that was his, he’d ever had a day at the beach.

      But I did. I remember the sting of saltwater on burned skin. I remember hot dogs and mustard and blown sand in the buns.

      It was the thought of the watermelon that jerked him back to the present. Sweet, cool watermelon on a windy afternoon at the beach. School buses idling to take the children back to school during the last week of the school year. No more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks. He saw his father’s handwriting as he thought of those words. Summer would never end.

      Everything ends, he croaked to the dry silence between two monolithic dunes, as he trudged upslope through the clutching sand.

      It is so hot that even the scorpions won’t come out.

      In the distance, the sun sank lower in the sunburned sky, as dunes began to grow long cool shadows pointing thin fingers to the east.

      Without making camp he lay down in the cradle of a shady dune and fell to snoring.

      When he awoke, the sun had fallen behind the highest dune and a stiff breeze lifted sand, sending it skirting across the smooth surfaces of the dunes. The body of a dead bee lay in the foreground of his skewed vision. His head pounded and he knew he was beyond any point of thirst he had ever experienced. Already his hand was half buried.

      I have been asleep but a few minutes. The sand doesn’t waste time.

      Not ready to move his aching head, he remained staring at the dead bee in the canted landscape. He wasn’t sure, but the sun seemed in the wrong position. If that was the case then it was not a few minutes but maybe the next day, and if that was the case then things were even worse than he had first thought. A new day of heat amongst the dunes.

      There is little hope.

      So at least, you have some hope.

      It’s just a saying. I actually have no hope.

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