Category: From the Dusty Mesa

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. VII

I ride north for the Lumpong Agency, and it takes me most of two days to reach it from Carbonate.  It would take several more days for me to ride to Nanung, the seat of the Agency, but I don’t need to go that far.  Just far enough to see my uncle.

The land becomes flat and arid once I leave Tochopa National Forest.  The forests become flat scrubland that stretch for miles in every direction.  I can’t see a tree no matter which direction I look.  The only vegetation are low lying shrubs and bushes.  It’s also hot.  Almost unbearably hot.  I wear nothing but a simple desert robe that covers me but doesn’t smother me.

There are faded signs warning me about that I’m about to enter the Lumpong Agency.  I’m stopped by an agency ranger less than five minutes across the border.  I show him my papers and explain to him who I want to see.

“Who is he to you?” the ranger asks.

“He’s my uncle,” I say.  “My mother’s brother.”

“Your father?”

“Miqad al-Chokik.”

The ranger looks surprised.

“He doesn’t talk about me often, does he?”

The ranger shakes his head.  An oddly human gesture.  “But then again, he has plenty of children as it is.”  The ranger returns my papers to me.  “I’ll take you to see Thabit.”

I nod my head.  There’s no point in arguing so I follow him.  The ranger attempts to make conversation with me, but I offer few answers.  I’m not much interested in conversation as my mind is occupied with thoughts of my uncle and my father.

Sanapong is built on top of a steep hill.  A few old mud huts are built at the base behind a sagging barbed wire fence.  Newer looking trailer homes sat higher up on the hill towards the peak.  Adults are passed out on front stoops, either from drugs or alcohol.  I avert my eyes, unwilling to see it for what it is.  Children run out to run around the horses.  They’re dressed in dirty rags.

“Why aren’t they in school?” I ask.

“School had to shut down.  No money.”

Thabit ibn Sasah lives in a trailer near the summit.  We’re met by a broad shouldered orc who’s scowling at me.  I recognize him as my brother, Dilal.

“Odima,” he says, still scowling.

“I’m here to see our uncle.”

“Our uncle?  After what you did to our father?”

“If you’ll notice, brother,” I say, “I’m here to see our uncle, not our father.”

“What is this about?”

“We’re family.  Do I need a reason?”

Dilal glares at me before finally relenting.  “Follow me,” he says.

I follow him inside the trailer, carrying my sack with me.  Dust dances in sunlight shining in through the windows.  The top half of the walls are covered in faded wallpaper and then lower half are covered by wood paneling.  The furniture is old and torn.  A group of children sit in the living room, watching static-filled I Love Lucy reruns on the television while drinking Coke from glass bottles and eating falafel.

Uncle Thabit is in the back bedroom.  His skin is sallow and sagging.  The room smells like rosewater.  Thabit opens his eyes and looks at me.  “I thought I wouldn’t see ghosts until I was actually dead,” he says.  “Hamah, is that you?”

“No, uncle, it’s me, Odima.”

Thabit closes his eyes.  “I must be in hell.”

“I’m not dead, not matter how much you wish I was.”

“What do you want, child?” Thabit asks.

“I’ve come to discuss the future of our people.”

Thabit begins to laugh, but it quickly turns into a racking cough.  He wipes spittle and phlegm from his lips.  “Our people?  You mean the people you abandoned.”

“I never abandoned my people.”

“You live and work with the Autumn-Men.  They’re dead leaves.  Why do you care?”

“Because they’re our future, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Have you become a rot-eater?” Dilal asks.

I try not to rise to the bait.  I drop the bag I’m carrying on the floor, and it makes a loud bang.

“What’s that?” Dilal asks.

“Two hundred pounds of copper bars.  They’re mining metal from the ground from our land.  This is our future.”

“What’s your point?” Thabit asks.

“The future is here,” I say.  “We can’t fight it, but we can forge our space in it.”

“A space?  Have you found your space, child?  Do they accept you as one of their own?”

I open my mouth to say something, but stop because I realize that I can’t argue with my uncle.

“Where did you get all this copper?” Dilal asks.

“I stole it,” I answer.

“Stole it?”

“You accuse me of being a rot-eater, but I’m the only one trying to make my place in their world.”

“By killing them?” Thabit asks.

“By keeping the balance,” I answer.

“You are not keeping any balance,” Thabit said.  “Leave my presence, child.  I never want to see you.  You have your dead leaves to play with.”

“I am repaying the money that I–”

“I said be gone!  Leave!  As far as I’m concerned, we no longer share any blood!”

I clench my fists and bite my tongue.  Without saying a word, I turn and march out of the trailer, slamming the door behind me.

“Odima!” Dilal calls after me as I mount my horse.

I don’t acknowledge him.

“Father will know you’ve returned,” Dilal says.

“I don’t care,” I say, pointing my horses back south towards Carbonate.

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. V

A naturalist named McClendon hired me as a guide, to take him through the Tochopa National Forest north of east of Carbonate.  Gundy didn’t want me to go by myself.  This McClendon was a stranger and Gundy wasn’t certain that he trusted him.  I reassured him that I could handle myself.

McClendon is a professor at some school I’d never heard of on a planet I’d never heard of.  He is a human with glasses and a golden beard.  Like all Autumn-Men, he is tall and slender, with long limbs and soft features.

He is soft spoken too.  This is his first time to the Tochopa National Forest, but he has read about it.  He marvels at the trees and the plants.  We must stop every so often so that he can collect samples, take pictures with his bulky Kodak camera or for him to make quick charcoal sketches.

“I’m a naturalist,” he explains as we start again.  “I specialize in evolutionary biology and biogeography.”

I have to admit that I am unfamiliar with those words, and McClendon simply smiles.  “I study the process that created biological organisms and their distribution across worlds.”

I nod my head.

McClendon talks frequently.  Sometimes I understand him, sometimes I don’t.  I keep my eyes open, looking for any threats.  Mountain lions often don’t come down from the Black Hills into the forests, but it’s not unknown–and we are skirting the edge of the Lumpong Agency.

The Tochopa National Forest is covered in all different sorts of pines.  There are Hawatama ponderosas–tall and narrow with dark red bark.  Then there are the smaller Tochopa pinyon pines–shorter and broader, with branches spreading up to twenty feet across.  Short grass and squat sagebrush cover the ground alongside discarded needles and pinecones.

McClendon is red faced and drenched in sweat.  We stop under a pine tree to rest and eat some lunch.  He says a few jokes and I laugh politely.

We finally set up camp in the evening.  We haven’t gotten far, but McClendon seems impressed with the progress.  He spends an hour cataloguing everything he’s seen and collected before joining me for dinner.  A cold chill settles in and I shiver reflexively.

McClendon clears his throat and he says he’ll offer me money.  I’m confused and his faces turns red.  After a few moments, I understand and I decline.

The second day is much of the same.  If McClendon is upset, he doesn’t show it.  He talks to me about the flora and fauna.  I nod politely and smile.  He enjoys it.  When we set up camp for the second night, he again offers me money.  It’s more money this time, but again, I decline it.

The third day is much of the same.  After setting up camp but before McClendon can say anything, I push him to the ground and start pulling off his clothes.

I may be many things, but I’m not a whore.

McClendon’s hands are soft and gentle, and his beard tickles me.  I’ve long since learned that there’s not much difference between a human male and an orcish male physically, so there’s no surprises.  We finish and lie together next to the fire.

“Have you ever been to space?” McClendon asks me.

I shake my head.  I haven’t.

“I’ve studied more than a dozen worlds, and I’ve studied dozens of biospheres,” McClendon says.  “What I should have studied were the orcs.”

The orcs?

“There’s been orcs on every world I’ve visited.”

I sit up and stare down at him, confused as to what he means.

“You don’t know?  There are orcs everywhere, all across the cluster.  Thousands and thousands of tribes and ethnic groups, and billions and billions of you.”

I had trouble comprehending that.  It is difficult for me to imagine life outside of the northern Hawatama Territory, let alone the stars beyond.

“Not all of them live on the agencies or reservations.  Most have assimilated into society at large.”

I look away from McClendon and into the fire, my mind swirling.  I am having troubling understanding the concept.  Orcs elsewhere?  Orcs not living on the edge?

“Washington doesn’t trust Muslims.  Haven’t since that Mahdi Revolt back in ’17, not that I blame them.”

McClendon places a cold hand on my back and I lay down again, unable to still my mind.

In the morning, I feel McClendon pressed against my back and I oblige him before we set out again.  My mind is elsewhere.  I can hear McClendon talking at me about trees and other worlds he’s been to, but all I can think of are other orcs on other worlds.  Orcs that didn’t have to live on reservations.

I am paying enough attention to see the saber cat in the distance.  The large cat stands on a small hill about two or three miles from us.  I tell McClendon to stop and I whisper that there’s a saber cat.  His eyes grow wide and the color leaves his face.  I tell him not to worry.

I unsling my hunting rifle, hold it in the crook of my arm and watch.  The saber cat is a large animal that weighs almost a thousand pounds with jaws powerful enough to tear a man in half.  It descends the hill and begins to approach us.  I raise the rifle and fire off one, two shots.  I shot above the saber cat’s head, just close enough to scare it away.

McClendon let out a sigh and put a hand on my shoulder.  “Thank you.”

I nod my head.

That night, we repeat the same thing we’d done the night before.  McClendon’s gentleness surprises me, but I don’t dislike it.  He points out the constellations as we lie in each other’s arms.  The sky looks like a black cloth that someone had poked little holes in.  He points somewhere on the southern horizon, just above a rise of trees.

“And that’s Old Earth,” he says.  I’ve heard that phrase used before, but had never given it much thought.  “That’s where we came from.”

We?

“Humans at least.”

I nod my head.

The next day is warmer, but we’re turning south to loop back to Carbonate.  We pass a spring, and I see movement, so we stop to investigate.  There’s a young woman with blue-green skin bathing naked.  A nymph.  It’d been years since I’d seen one this far north.  McClendon is staring at her, and I feel a wave of jealousy run through me.

We can’t stay here, so I pull McClendon back onto his horse and we continue on our way.

The last few days continue as the rest.  We ride during the day, with McClendon collecting samples and pictures–I know he’s taken a few pictures of me, but I allow him.  We lay with each other during the night, and McClendon’s attitude changes.  He talks less about the world and more about him.  He tells me about his life, what he’s done and what he hopes to do.  I have this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can’t explain.  I say little, still acting the part of the savage.

We return to Carbonate a week after setting out.  McClendon hadn’t said much for the past few hours, and he bids me a hesitant farewell.  He checks into a room at the Roadside Inn while he waits for his train.  I take the mustangs back to the stables before turning to my own room in the Roadside Inn, which is on the first floor next to the lobby.

I shower to wash the dirt and grime off me.  After I’m done, I begin to dress but I’m interrupted by my room phone.  It’s McClendon.  He wants to see me again to talk.  I agree and go up to his room on the third floor.  It’s the standard one room motel room.  There’s a painting of seashore hanging above the bed.  I have never understood that choice.

McClendon kisses me on the mouth, and I’m surprised at how forward he is since he’d never kissed me when we were out on the trail.  “I want you to have this,” he says, presenting me with a choker made from turquoise, silver and ivory.  I hesitate to accept it, but I relent and let him put it around my neck.  “I want you to come with me.”

What?

“I’m leaving for Samawa tomorrow, and next week I’m taking a PanAm clipper for the shores of the Salt Sea.”

That’s on the other side of Redstone.

“I want you to come with me.  I need you.  And after that, I’m going back to Odysseus.”

I don’t know how to answer this.  He’s asking me to leave my home, leave my people, leave my world.  Can I?  He’s spent the past week filling my mind with stories of other worlds where orcs are more accepted.  Could I even believe him?  I need to think.

McClendon pulls me onto the bed and we make love for what seems like hours.  His skin his softer and smells sweater after a shower.  He’s more passionate and earnest now.  After he finishes inside me, he leans down and whispers, “I love you.”

Once he falls asleep, I sneak out of the room.  I go to the stables to get some mustangs and head back out.  I don’t want to be in town when he wakes up.

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. IV

The agency police were after him.  Conroy knew they were, though he hadn’t seen them for several miles now.  His thighs hurt but he couldn’t stop.  His horse was panting from the effort and seemed to be slowing down.

Could horses sweat?

Conroy had ridden south from the Lumpong Agency, around the Owl Creek Canyon and through the seemingly endless national forests.  He’d underestimated just how many trees the Hawatama Territory had.  The Lumpong Agency had been the empty, red desert he’d been expecting.  He hadn’t much time to gawk at the Owl Creek Canyon, but even that was behind him.  The trees were tall and narrow ponderosa pines, covering sparse and rocky land.

He reached for his canteen, but it was empty.  Where was the nearest water source?

“I’m going to die out here,” he said, licking his parched lips.  His vacation down from the orbital states was certainly not going as planned.

His horse had slowed down to a shuffling trot.  “Come on, buddy,” he said, patting its neck.  “Just a little bit further.”

His horse slowed to a stop, wobbling where it stood.  Conroy jumped down and the horse collapsed.  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.  He took what he could from the saddle and began to run.

Conroy didn’t make it far before he tripped and fell face forward into a muddy wash, scrapping his hands on the rocky outcroppings.  He pushed himself to his feet and saw that he’d stumbled onto a camp.  Two Andalusian mustangs were tied to a nearby tree, and a single orc was standing over a smoldering fire.

“Son of a bitch,” Conroy muttered again.

It was a female orc–green skin, low forehead, heavy jaw.  She wore dusty jeans and a tight, grey t-shirt that said HAWATAMA in red and gold letters across her chest.  One side of her head was shaved, and the rest of her black hair was tied into braids.

“What?” she asked flatly.

“What are you doing here?” Conroy asked quickly.  She didn’t look like agency police, but she still an orc.

“Hunting,” the orc answered.

“Hunting what?”

A battle rifle was leaning against a nearby tree, as was a gun belt with a revolver.  She’d come prepared for something. “Elk.”

“Look, you have to help me,” Conroy said.  “There are some bad people after me.”

“Who?”

“Orcs.”

She narrowed her eyes.  Most of her face was obscured by a tattoo of a handprint that ran diagonally from above her left eye down to her right jawline.  “Why?”

“Look, if you get me to Carbonate safely, there will be a big reward for you.”

“Reward?”

“Yes, reward.  My family is quite rich and will pay you for rescuing me.”

The orc didn’t say anything.

“What’s your name?  My name’s Conroy.”

“Odima,” the orc said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Odima,” Conroy said.  He heard distant shouting behind him.  “I assure you, you will be paid handsomely if you–”

“There,” Odima said.

“There what?”

Odima pointed to a hollow under the tree.  “Hide there,” she said.

Conroy scrambled and hid inside the hollow.  Odima untied her horses and moved them to obscure his hiding space.  His heart was thumping in his chest so loud he was afraid the agency police would hear it.  After several long minutes, he heard the sound of approaching horses.  There was shouting in the harsh guttural language of the Lumpong orcs, and there were several voices, including Odima’s.

He was too afraid to move and eve to breathe, so he lay there, motionless and listening to a conversation that he couldn’t understand.

The agency police finally departed.  He was about to let out a sigh of relief, but a hand reached down to pull him out.  He struggled and shouted as the hand grabbed him by the collar of the shirt.  Odima pulled him and pointed a revolver at his head.

“Rape,” she said through gritted teeth.

“What?”

“They say you rape orc.”

“Okay, look, that was just a misunderstanding.  We were both drunk and she didn’t want to tell her parents that she–”

Odima turned her revolver around and whipped Conroy across the face.  “You bad man.”  She spat on him before pistol whipping him again and again and again.  When he tried to protect his face, she kicked him with her boots.  She finally stopped.  “Garbage.”

Conroy spat blood and several broken teeth.  “I’m sorry.”

Odima holstered her revolver, strapped a black ballistic vest across her chest and slung the hunting rifle across her back.  “It more cruel to leave you here,” she said.  She untied her horses and mounted one.

“You can’t leave me here!” Conroy said, but it came out heavy and slurred.

Odima looked down at him, a scowl on her face.  She turned and began to ride south without saying another word.  Conroy tried to get to his feet to follow her, but he stumbled and fell.  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the branches of the pine tree obscuring his view of the red sun.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. III

The first Autumn-Men who had come to my world named the red sun Al Rescha and the world Hajar Ahmar.  After them came to current Autumn-Men, the Americans, who’d kept the name for the sun but renamed the world to Redstone.

I think it’s an apt name.

The mountain is a spire of red rock jutting up from the desert plains, its sides covered in dark pine trees.  I lean against one of the pines with my binoculars raised.  Binoculars.  The English word weighs as much as the devices do, but they are worth their weight in spices.

Below me is a meadow covered by tall prairie grass that waves in the high wind.  A mosque had been built out of stone and timber, but it is overgrown with weeds and moss.  The minaret has fallen into a pile next to it.  I see the ruins over other buildings, but all that’s left of them are their foundations.  The mosque largely survives.

The building’s design and purpose is familiar to me.  My father had been an imam once, back on the Lumpong Agency.  When was the last time I’d thought of him, of the religion that had been forced on us by the first Autumn-Men?

There’s movement inside the mosque.  Fire, at least.  Something comes out of the mosque and my breath catches in my throat.  The Arabs call them djinn, and the Americans call them fairies.  I’m not sure if my people have a name for them because they only appeared after the Autumn-Men did.

The fairies dance between the waving grass and disappear into the trees on the other side of the meadow.  A cold shiver runs down my despite the late afternoon heat.  I wipe sweat from my forehead; my forearms are still wet, and I know that my undershirt is drenched.  It has been a hard ride today through some of the most unforgiving territory on Redstone.

I need a place to rest for the night because Al Rescha is beginning to set, but not here.  I will not spend the night at a house of Allah that has been taken over by alien spirits.  I go back to my waiting Andalusian mustang to ride around the mountain and then down to a better place to camp.

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. II

“It’s gone.  All gone.  Can you believe that?”

Floyd Gundy didn’t look up from his accounting book, but he knew that Hershel Friedgen was pacing back and forth in the motel lobby.

“How could something like this even happen?” Friedgen asked.  The fat man was wearing a brown western suit with a bolo tie that had a large turquoise stone set in it.  Expensive, if real, and knowing Friedgen, it was.  The motel lobby contained several glass cases displaying silver and turquoise jewelry.  Most of it was fake because there was no way that Gundy’s clientele could afford the real deal.

“What should I do?” Friedgen asked, coming to a stop at the front desk.  “Do you know how much copper, how much money, I’ve lost?”

Gundy held in a sigh and looked up.  “Mr. Friedgen, I am attempting to attend to my own business by checking my books.”

“This is important, though,” Friedgen said.  “Those copper mines could be a major boom for this part of the territory!”

“You mean the illegal copper mines?” Gundy asked.

Friedgen wiped sweat from his brow.  The motel lobby was air conditioned, but the fat man was still drenched in sweat.  Set off from the lobby was the motel’s restaurant, a 24/7 dinner that served a mix of traditional Arab cuisine and the traditional American greasy spoon.  “Those mines are very rich in the metal, and it’s not right that they’re covered by federal land,” Friedgen said.  “I needed this shipment to show the investors that I was for real.”

“And then what?”

“I have connections with legislators so that we can get land set aside and mining permits.”

“Connections?  Certainly you mean bribes.”

Friedgen waved his hand.  “Such a dirty phrase.”

“How do you know something has happened to your copper?”

“Because the mules were supposed to arrive in Galahad two days ago, but it hasn’t.  At first I thought they were just slow, but then the bodies of one of the men I’d hired washed up in the Huvasu a few hours ago.”

“Perhaps he fell.”

“Dead of a gunshot wound,” Friedgen said.  “I had them take a back route specifically so they wouldn’t have any issues.”

“You know the back country is filled with tribals and raiders.”

“Tribals you say?”  Friedgen looked past Gundy at the orc sitting on the floor in the back room.  Odima was sitting on the floor with a disassembled hunting rifle in front of her.  “I haven’t seen her for a few days.”

“Are you accusing Odima of something?” Gundy asked.  Odima looked up at the mention of her name.  The right side of her head was shaved and there was a hand print tattoo across her face.  “Odima was hunting in the Black Hills all week.”

“The Black Hills, huh?” Friedgen asked.  “You knew where the mules were going.  What about her?”

“What about her?”

“Does she understand English?”

“Understand little, speak littler,” Odima said in a thick, husky voice.

“You speak less,” Gundy said.  “And you’re being paranoid, and racist.  Odima is one of the good ones.”  He tapped his pen on the table in annoyance.  “It could have been anyone.  6,000 pounds of copper is a lot of money.  One of the men you hired could have betrayed the others.”

Friedgen shook his head.  “I don’t know.  Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

“Are you going to send another load?”

“I have no other choice.”

Gundy looked back down at his books.  “Then I guess that’s what your next step is.”

“There’s no other choice.”

“No, there’s not,” Gundy said.

Friedgen sighed heavily and took his leave.  The bell above the door jingled as he left.  Gundy watched the door for several moments before turning around to look at Odima.

“Where have you been, Odima?” Gundy asked.

“Hunting,” Odima answered flatly.

“Hunting?”

“I shoot elk.”

“Where’s my cut?” Gundy asked.

“Soon,” Odima said.

“You don’t have to talk like a savage around me.  I know you know more English than you let on.”

Odima merely shrugged and picked up a piece of the rifle to oil it.

Gundy watched her work.  She’d grown up on what was now the Lumpong Agency to the west, but had been working for Gundy for several years now.  The Carbonate Roadside Inn catered to middle class tourists from Samawa or Sharqiah to the south, and natives like Odima served as guides and scouts for them.  Guests who came from the orbital states and skyhooks stayed at The Carbonate Manor Lodge paid more for less competent human guides, but at least they didn’t look like they would rob you blind and leave you for dead in the high desert.

Not that Odima had ever done anything like that.

“Hunting,” Gundy said.  “Well, I owe whoever did this a favor or two.”

“Why?”

“Friedgen thinks the copper will be a boom, and it will be, but not the boom I want.  You know what miners bring?  Hookers, blow and lawlessness.  We’re a tourist town.  If we become a mining town, what’s in it for me?”

Odima shrugged.

“It is what it is, I suppose.”

The sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to the noon prayer could be heard through the lobby’s closed door.

“Aren’t you going?” Gundy asked.

“Going what?”

“Prayer.  I thought all you orcs were Muslim.”

“Prayer wastes time,” Odima said.  “Not going.”

Gundy nodded his head.  “Well, take this someplace where guests can’t see you.  They’ll be coming in for lunch and I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

Odima gathered the pieces and cleaning supplies and went into the back room, closing the door behind her.  Gundy returned to his books, but he could only focus on one question: what reason would Odima have to hijack Hershel Friedgen’s copper?

From the Dusty Mesa – Pt. I

The wind blows through the canyon and into the cracks and holes, whistling.  The valley walls are red, but become paler the higher they go.  The upper bands aren’t even visible under the squat pine trees that cover the top of the buttes.  I sit cross-legged in a small indention of a butte, a ponderosa pine shading me.  Al Rescha is setting behind me, the glare from the red dwarf shielding me from being spotted.

My legs had gone numb hours ago, but I couldn’t move.  I’m a hunter stalking my prey.

The valley is still.  The only sound is the whistling of the wind and the only movement are the ponderosas waving back forth in the wind.  There are no birds, and lizards and snakes are not known for their singing.

The Huvasu River cuts through the bottom of the canyon, but this high up, I can’t hear the roar of the rapids.  A narrow mule trail runs down the valley, a terrifying maze of hairpin turns and switchbacks.

There’s movement down below.  I raise my rifle and look down the scope.  There’s a mule train making its way down the canyon.  A dozen mules tied together and loaded down with unmarked wooden boxes.  I count seven guards.  Some are walking in front of or behind the mule train.  Other are riding the mules.  They can’t walk beside the mules because the trail is too narrow.

I pick my targets.  I’ll start with the back and work my way forward.  I squeeze the trigger and the rifle kicks.  The gunshot echoes across the canyon and the mules panic.  I shift targets and squeeze again.