The Old Man and the Wasteland. Nick Cole

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СКАЧАТЬ you said you have little hope. Why?

      Why what?

      Why a little? A little hope would have gone a long way for that dead bee. But for you maybe it is too little.

      The bee.

      The Old Man shook himself upright. His face sandy, he stared wildly about, then closed his eyes as his head began to throb.

      Bees always fly straight to water. Big Pedro had taught him that. And he had seen it. Many times.

      The bee is dead. How can a dead bee lead you too water?

      He was an ambitious bee. Like me.

      Or he was cursed. Like you also.

      Then this brother is a bee to me, he declared in confusion. I will find more bees. His brothers are my brothers. Some always leads to more and where there are more bees they will lead me to water.

      It is morning so it will be cool for awhile, but not long. Bees like the heat.

      Bending low he gently picked up the dead bee.

      I will find us some water my brother.

      He placed the bee in the tin of grease and snapped the ancient lid shut.

      That way seems familiar but dunes are all alike.

      Heading into the sun now he climbed the first dune, and far to the east he saw blue ridges shadowed in the rising sun.

      East is evil and curst.

      Ah but there are two of us now. I have my brother the bee and he has his brothers.

      Soon the sun was hot, as first he climbed a dune, then descended only to start the process once more. It is the only way, he told the bee. It is the only way I can be sure I am heading to the ridge.

      At the top of each sandy dune he scanned for swarms, or movement of any kind. His eyes were still good and yet he saw no bees.

      Maybe in the rocks, brother. Maybe that is where we will find your home.

      At the full blaze of noon The Old Man descended the last dune into a short sandy scrub of low bushes. A few miles away lay the now red rock ridge.

      For a moment The Old Man considered digging amongst the scrub for water but the plants were papery and did little to convince him of the chance of appreciable water.

      Opening the tin of grease he looked at the dead bee.

      I can only go so far bee. So which way, huh? He held the bee up hoping to catch a breeze and saw himself from afar.

      This is insane. Look at yourself. An Old Man holding a dead bee in the desert. If he comes back to life you are really crazy. The Old Man realized it was his young self talking to him. The self he had once been and had been thinking of too much since the dream of the child.

      Be quiet. This is not so crazy. One of his brothers might smell him and come for a look. Then maybe I can follow him back to water.

      The Old Man lurched forward into the scrub holding out the bee for any passing stray bee to smell. I can’t trust my ears he said. They have been buzzing. So I will look for a black shape moving, hopping between the bushes of low scrub. That will be a bee.

      When he had reached the limit of the little strength he had left, the ridge was still far off and on fire with the red of a late afternoon sun in decline.

      The Old Man sat down knowing he would not rise. The wings of the bee still held gently between thumb and forefinger.

      Well, we tried.

      He could no longer swallow. His mouth felt coarse and thick. His throat a ragged burning trench and his body ached. Mostly in his throbbing head.

      If I can lay here until dark, then the light won’t hurt my eyes so much and then maybe I can make it to the ridge.

      But it was a lie as soon as he told it. By nightfall he would be beyond standing.

      Then I must stand a little more and maybe a few steps will take me to the rocks of the ridge. And that also is a lie.

      Standing, a dull bomb went off with a solid crack in the back of his skull as stars raced forward toward the rocks.

      But it is my lie.

      He continued forward. Moments later he saw a bee which came diving at him, and then quickly tore away off toward the rocks. The Old Man shambled forward, trailing the bee which hopped from shrub to shrub, sometimes methodical at other times racing off toward the horizon. Just when The Old Man thought he had lost the bee forever, again the bee would leap up and head off along the same bearing.

      Ahead, The Old Man could see a spur jutting out from the ridge, and following the spur back to the crook it left in the ridge, he saw a splotch of green.

      But it is too far.

      He continued after the bee, still holding the dead bee between his thumb and forefinger. The line from where he had met the bee and the splotch of green was true and straight.

      Falling forward, he tripped on an exposed root and fell into the sandy chalk that rose up in plumes around him.

      I have never been so comfortable in all my life.

      If you don’t get up, the bee who is flying will be gone and you will never find the water, never find salvage, and you will die curst.

      I am curst. I don’t care. I want to sleep now.

      He closed his eyes and when he did, he thought of his granddaughter who was just thirteen. It was she who had stayed faithful to him after the other villagers had cursed him and refused to salvage with him. She had begun to salvage with him. He had enjoyed that. The salvage had become more enjoyable and less desperate on those long mornings he spent with her as they walked and talked. Talked of all manner of things from the way the world had been to the way it is and sometimes of the way it might be. That had been enjoyable.

      I am sorry my brother bee.

      Arms of sleep beckoned him a little farther down the well of darkness.

      I must use your help for a moment little bee. I am sorry. I have to wake up for a while. Long enough to see what lies in the crook of the ridge.

      He squeezed his palm hard shut and felt the stinger of the dead bee enter the flesh of his palm. An electric jolt coursed through his body and instantly the palm was alive with fire.

      The Old Man kept his fist shut as he pushed away from the sand and began once more to the ridge.

      Desert scrub, sandy and brown, gave way to large sunburnt rocks. Reaching the crook in the ridge, he entered a stand of palo verdes. The Green Sticks the villagers called them. Back amongst the rocks a quiet stream, barely more than a trickle, came out of the rocks feeding the little stand of palo verdes. The Old Man dropped his satchel and lay down to drink. The water was cool.

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