Traveller
There is a wasteland not far from here that is more like the desert around the Land of Oz than anything in the real world. It just starts. There is a straight line as far as the eye can see. On one side is plenty of nice green grass. On the other is black wasteland where nothing grows. There is no dirt for anything to grow in, just hard black ground and rocks.
When the traveller comes to this wasteland there is no question about what to do – it has to be explored. Most people at the the edge of such a wasteland would be happy to take few pictures, walk a hundred yards in and sit on a rock so you would have something to tell your friends. Maybe you would make it a day out with a picnic on the grassy side of the line. The traveller crosses the line and keeps going.
This is not a day trip and some photos. This is life, not because of a spirit of adventure, not because of a romantic-tragic past life that ended in exile. It just is. As you would expect when things just are, the traveller is properly equipped with water and a backpack and footwear that would let you walk across razor blades. And confidence. You could buy the equipment, but the traveller has confidence that comes from exploring the whole of places that you only see from the edges.
Days later – or is it hours? years? – the delirious traveller is desperate to see an edge again. The water is nearly gone. Every movement sweats away a little more of the precious stuff, but a traveller has to keep moving, keep trying to find the edge.
This waste ends somewhere. The traveller can smell moisture and grass, but there is no clue which way to go. The smells come from every direction on a gusty breeze, a gusty, swirly little wind, not strong enough to hurt you or brave enough to face you, a little monkey wind dancing around you, dashing in to steal your hope and out to point and laugh. If you were there, it would make you understand about trying to grasp the wind, about trying to choke and strangle and shake the wind until it is dead.
If you could look down from the height of passing a bird, you could see the green edge of the waste not too far away. You could see the trail left by the traveller. You could wonder how the traveller survived exploring anything. The route was more like that of a drunk walking a labyrinth than someone born to explore. You could see that now the traveller is moving parallel to the edge. The traveller can’t see like that though. The traveller sees black wasteland and two black choices: stop and die or keep moving and probably die.
So keep moving.
The traveller’s name is Sammy, Now you wonder, why tell you a name when death is so near? You didn’t have to learn the names of the thief on the cross or the red-shirted members of Captain Kirk’s landing parties or the soldiers who were shot down and blown up during the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan.
Now you have learned the traveller’s name you start looking for hope. Wasn’t that just a slight turn toward the edge? Isn’t Sammy moving with a bit more purpose now? Don’t those clouds look like they might be bringing rain? Isn’t that monster that just landed probably a friend?
Sammy swivels around to look. It is a monster. Even dried out eyes can see that. Its legs are three times Sammy’s height. Traveller’s instinct says, don’t wait for more information. Don’t run like a fool. Hide. Instinct snaps Sammy’s fevered mind into alertness, but instinct can’t make a hiding place appear in this wasteland.
Couldn’t it be a friendly monster though?
The only real hope is not being spotted. The backpack is only thing like a place to hide. Sammy curls up under it. The pack is camouflaged, but it is camouflage designed for a world of plants and dirt and stones, not a black wasteland.
As Sammy’s curled up body touches itself maybe it generates a little encouragement. This body may be dehydrated and exhausted; it is also tough and experienced. These muscles are strong. They could keep a traveller moving a while longer. There is an edge, and it can be found – after a little rest, after this monster leaves. Maybe it will leave a trail. A creature that tall could surely see the right way to go.
Of course it could. The edge is only a few hops away, not far enough to bother with flying. For her, for the monster, this wasteland is only an interruption, a black strip through her world of trees, a useful black strip actually. Any lunch that wanders onto it is so easy to see. Sammy is so easy to see.
The first blow of her beak smashes through the backpack and pierces Sammy’s body. The second does it again, easily. She separates Sammy and the backpack in the same casual way that you pull the meat from a chicken leg, and she eats. One big mouthful, that’s all Sammy is.
One big, not quite so juicy as normal mouthful, then the monster sparrow hops twice and flies off. And the legacy that Sammy the traveller leaves the world is a silver trail on a black pavement that ends at a broken shell.
9 September 2008 Jeff Gill
tags: stories,
writing
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