Over There by Benjamin X. Wretlind Part 1
Over There by Benjamin X. Wretlind Part 1
The man without the hat was not the first Harrow had picked up this week, but he was the first with shoes. Most of them walked barefoot.
The wagon, pulled by two stocky horses with contrasting colors—one ashen, one red—slowed as Harrow pulled back on the reins and gave quiet instruction. He regarded the man standing in the middle of the desert, the man with nothing but ragged clothes, singed in spots, covered in dust, the man with shoes too clean to have been on his feet for long. He was slender, as most people in this day were, but only the stubble of a few days’ respite from a razor covered his face. Even so, there were telltale signs of exposure to the elements: red skin, crusted saliva around the mouth, pinched eyes.
“Afternoon,” Harrow said as the wagon matched the speed of the man.
The man did not look up, nor did he speak. Rather, he continued a slow plod through the desert toward the horizon, a determined gaze fixed upon the unreachable.
“Give you a lift?”
Again, the man said nothing, but an inkling of awareness crossed weathered features. Harrow noted the man’s affect and appearance. It was no different from most of the people he picked up along the way. Gaunt, expressionless, soulless. Some of them started their journey toward the horizon early, some late. Some started in the middle, as it was clear this man had.
The man stopped and Harrow pulled on the reins just enough to rest the wagon. He looked at Harrow, then slowly took in the horses resting in the scorching sun, the jockey bench where Harrow sat, the wagon bed and the iron tires wrapped around maple spokes. Harrow sensed the man was processing, absorbing as much information as possible. Likely, he was calculating a response in a brain no doubt slowed from shock, exposure to the elements, or a lack of water. Maybe all three.
“Where are you headed?” Harrow asked.
“Over there.” The man’s voice cracked as he pointed in an ambiguous direction with a weak jerk of an arm. Harrow noted cracked lips, red with sores, blisters on the backs of a hand. He’d been wandering for a few days.
“Well, hop in. I can give you a ride. There’s some water in a bucket and an extra hat for your head.”
“Much obliged.” The man ambled to the back, stepped into the wagon, then fell in apparent exhaustion on a pile of brown wool blankets. His eyes remained open, fixed on the cerulean blue sky at the end of the world.
Harrow turned. With a quick jerk of the reins, the horses obeyed, and the wagon moved onward.
###
“What’s your name?” Harrow looked back. The man was now upright on the blankets, a tin cup of water in a shaky hand cemented to his lips. He finished the last of the water and let the cup drop on the wagon bed.
“Wendel.”
“Apt name.”
“Yours?”
“Harrow.”
“Odd name.”
The wagon continued forward, wheels creaking against the hard desert ground. Every so often, a rock jostled the two.
“You say you’re headed over there,” Harrow said after a moment. “What’s over there for you?”
“I don’t know. Don’t know where I’m going.” The man turned around. “Not sure where I’ve been.”
“Not much out here at the end of the world save a horizon you can never catch.”
“No. Suppose not.” Wendel crawled forward and took up an empty seat next to Harrow. “Dreams, I guess. Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all. I enjoy the company.” Harrow chewed on blade of grass. “You been traveling long?”
“All my life with no destination in mind,” Wendel said. “If you mean lately, I don’t know.”
Harrow could not respond to that. The two men looked ahead of the wagon at the vast expanse of scrub brush and wide open sky. The rugged terrain was daunting to look at, and yet peaceful in its way. In the distance, to the left and right, huge rock formations erupted out of the desert floor, defiant fists stabbing heavenward.
“Where you headed?” Wendel asked.
“Avernus.”
“Funny name.”
“Ever been to Whynot, North Carolina? Last Chance, Iowa?”
Wendel shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”
“Funny people make up funny names.” A playful smile crossed Harrow’s lips.
The wagon bumped over uneven terrain, past parched scrub brush, a few rocks. A lizard sat in the sun on one of them, nervously twitching its tail as the wagon passed. Harrow let himself watch the animal for a moment, a tiny imp confused in a hellish wasteland.
Wendel broke Harrow’s trance. “What’s at this Aver— Av—”
“Avernus,” Harrow said. He tore his eyes away from the lizard and looked ahead. “It’s a place to rest. Just over yonder.” He pointed toward the horizon with a dirty, crooked finger. “You can relax among friends, put your feet up and do nothing all day.”
“Sounds mighty nice. Fancy, even.”
“I don’t know about fancy, son, but a rest is a rest after a man’s long journey.” Harrow glanced at his passenger. “Your journey been long?”
Wendel did not respond right away. He looked down at his fingers, picked something out from under a fingernail, looked up at the sky.
“Those blisters hurt, mister?” Harrow asked.
The man turned his hand over and regarded the sores on his skin. Some of the blisters had popped, while other large bubbles had filled with pus.
They sat in silence for another moment. Harrow noted with bemusement that Wendel’s leg rhythmically bounced up and down. Wendel looked right, then left, then right again. He was nervous, or perhaps skittish. Impatient.
“You expecting something?” Harrow asked.
“No, no. Just…just not sure where I am or how I got here. Eager to get out of this desert, though. With all that’s been going on in the world, I want to block it out, put it behind me.”
Harrow nodded, knowingly, but asked anyway, “What’s been going on in the world?”
“My world or the world in general?”
“Only got one.”
“True.” Wendel picked at his fingernails again. “Seems like it’s all burning, and now here I am. Feel like I’ve been walking for days.”
“Can’t all be bad.”
“Can’t say any of it was good. Been running my entire life. Feel like I’m chasing the horizon, round and round, trying to make something I can’t get right.”
“The horizon?” Harrow chuckled. How many people say the same thing? “You just keep running? Sounds tiring, if you ask me.”
“Sad life.”
“Sad. Tiring. A man runs all day, but what if, instead, that man didn’t worry so much about that horizon, about what’s over there? Some say the destination can be a let down. Some say it’s all about being content.”
“I don’t know about that. Has to be better than this.”
Harrow looked at Wendel. There was a definite maudlin quality about the man, a defeatist attitude, but one tinted with perhaps a little realization. “Might feel different if you let yourself enjoy the journey.”
Wendel scoffed. “Enjoy what? The wheat that grows the moment you scythe it or this expanse of dirt? Fires that die the moment you light them? Should I enjoy the angry people on the street, the news in the papers? No, mister. I been trying to create something out of my life, and I can tell you, it ain’t possible where I’m coming from. It is over there.”
Again, Wendel indicated an ambiguous direction with the jerk of an arm.
“I see. You know, some people pay for enjoyment.”
Wendel sighed. “I’d pay a mint just to get there, anywhere, over there.”
“Hmm.” Harrow turned his attention from Wendel and looked ahead of the wagon, ahead at the distant horizon this man so impatiently wanted to get over. The wagon wheels creaked and groaned in rhythm to the clomping of the horses’ hooves. A tiny white cloud disrupted the endless sky, and Harrow smiled.
“How much longer?” Wendel asked, interrupting Harrow’s revelry.
“Maybe two, three days. We’ll rest when the sun sets.”
“Got a book to read?”
“Nope.” Harrow smiled wider. “But I have something that might help you pass the time when we settle the horses in for the night.”
About Benjamin X. Wretlind
Benjamin X. Wretlind is a speculative fiction author who writes science fiction, dark fantasy, magical realism, and some horror. Infusing his writing with a heavy dose of philosophy and epistemology, he is the author of several novels, novellas, and creative writing books and is a full member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA).
While not writing, Benjamin builds and teaches leadership and professional development courses to staff at Yale University. Owing his life’s viewpoint to Bob Ross, he has also painted a few things, thrown a few paintings away, and probably has a painting on an easel right now. Oh, and he loves woodworking, too.
It’s all about creating.
Benjamin lives with his wife Jesse in Colorado.
For blog articles and more, go to: https://www.bxwretlind.com/
