The Old Man and the Wasteland. Nick Cole

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.

      No, 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