3
Many times
he had seen them. Many. And although this was true, they still scared him. He
still saw them. In many ways, in many places he saw them. In the city he saw
them. Alone in the desert he saw them. Even now. Here. Alone in the darkness, he
saw.
So blue. So bright.
Always seeing. Always watching. The eyes of the Wizard.
Davis was walking through the desert again. But this time was
different. There was no road. No trail or path. Just the wastelands in all
their vast and empty glory. He looked up; the sky was blue and empty. The sun
shone bright, but there was no heat. Davis heard himself sing a verse of song
from his childhood. His younger days, playing with his friends in his father’s
fields. Running and chanting.
No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.
Although we are waiting, for all to be right.
All good dreams are coming, for those who dare wait.
Those who show their true virtue, and accept their true fate.
Like all his friends he had run and jumped while singing
these verses and countless others. Many of which had been forgotten.
Now this song he had come to hate. Virtue above all? That was
to be the meaning of the song. But it was a lie. A stupid kid’s idea from a
stupid kid’s song. Virtue may not be gone from this world, but it has passed
most people by all the same. To be a man in this
world meant to forego virtue. It meant doing what had to be done. The child he
once was wouldn't understand. Couldn't, really. He hadn't seen enough to know
that simple truth. His father had known of course. He had known it all too
well. But like all fathers, he wanted to protect his son. But the horrors of
the world find each of us in time. And they find us in their own way.
Davis walked on, with no sounds except his boots trudging
against the earth. There was no hurry, no sense of urgency, not this time. And
why would there be? He was no longer on the hunt. No longer chasing his prey.
The blonde man was dead. His companions were dead.
So he walked on. With
no place to go. Nothing to do. But he walked. Because walking felt right.
Walking gave him strength. If only a little. This is hell, Davis thought for no particular reason. Or a form of
hell at least. His own hell. A long dragged out damnation that went on for
eternity. Wandering in the desert.
He brought his hands up to his hips. He was not surprises to
see that his sword and his revolver were gone. Lost somewhere in Lock. Davis
regretted his loss. It had been a good sword. A good gun. But the regret faded
quickly. No need for a sword or gun out here.
No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.
Davis remembered the blonde man. Of course how could he
forget? The blonde man was dead now but how could he forget? His arm went to
his shoulder, where the old stab wound was. He was dead. But maybe, so am I.
This thought disturbed Davis. He stopped. He looked around.
Nothing but empty desert. No weeds or animal track. There was not even the
sound of the wind.
He remembered the blonde man. On his knees defeated. Then he
remembered himself. On his knees, defeated. He remembered the sword. The broken
sword that would shine. Shine so bright. He remembered the blood and the pain.
This almost brought a scream to his lips. The desert no longer felt vast and
empty. If felt small and crowded. Somehow closing in all around him. Pressing
in. Davis pitched forward and vomited into the dirt. Only what came out was not
vomit. It was blood. Dark and red. It seemed to turn black as it seeped into
the dry earth.
Davis tried to scream. But no sound came. He looked up. And
there in the sky above him were the eyes. The deep blue eyes. So bright and
vibrant and piercing. He realized that they were always there. They had always
been there. Watching him. He remembered how the broken swords would shine in
that same way. Bright and piercing. Then he heard the words. Spoken calmly and
with terrible power. And in those words there had been only truth.
Davis. You will serve.
4
Davis opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness. He was
lying on his back, on some sort of bedroll. The first thing he became aware of
was the pain. He gritted his teeth and let out a long, low growl. His body felt
like it was in shambles. Like the pain of a muscle that has been overworked. Only
far more heightened. It was a deep, sore ache that seemed to run through his
entire body. And in seemed to continue like a long, dull scream. His arms and
legs felt very stiff.
Davis took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. His right
hand was trembling. He saw light to his right. Two thin, vertical streaks of
sunlight. It was a window with some sort of sheet being used as a curtain, with
light poking out along the edges. He looked around and could see nothing else. The
room was musty and very warm. Sweat stood out on Davis’s forehead and arms. Not
dead. Not yet at least.
With a great effort he sat up. The pain from his midsection
was so extreme that for a few seconds he could not breathe. He paused for a
full minute, trying to collect himself. Then slowly, carefully, he got to his
feet. staggering over to the window, Davis reached out to grab the
curtain/blanket. He pulled it aside. Dusty yellow light filled the small room. Placed
carefully in the center of the room was the bedroll. To the right of the window
was a low wood table with a few items on it and to the left was a small wooden
door. The kind with no doorknob, just a wooden slider that can be opened and
closed from both sides.
Something was not right. He was wearing a light, button up
cotton shirt. It was old and faded but it was clean. He brought his hand up to
his shoulder. The shoulder the blonde man had pierced with is broken sword. Davis
nearly flinched in anticipation of the pain when his fingers touched his
shoulder. But there was nothing. No pain. Just that deep aching feeling that
seemed to swell up from the inside. His hand went to his ribs and nose. They had
both been broken. But they were not now. There was no blood on his new shirt
either. Nor any sign of blood.
He felt weak, and both tired and hungry. As though he had
spent days preforming some sort of physical labor with no food or rest. He
wanted nothing more than to collapse back onto the bedroll and sleep for a few
days. Maybe a week. Then he thought of his dream. What he now realized was a
dream.
No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.
The endless desert. The long walk. No place, no purpose. He angrily
pushed the thought of sleep away. Instead he began to make his way to the small
table. Walking proved to be difficult, but not impossible. Each step shot dull
aches and pains up his legs. He got to the table and held on to the edge to
keep from falling over.
Davis felt ridiculous. Like a toddler taking his first
clumsy, tentative steps. Had he not walked endless mile? Had he not crossed the
great wastelands? What the fuck was happening to him? Had he been sleeping for
months, or maybe even years? Was that why he had no wounds from his battle with
the blonde man? Now this thought disturbed him.
On the table before him were his effects. His shirts and
jeans had been washed and were neatly folded. His gun belt and sheath were
wrapped neatly but both were empty. His hat and gunna were gone. Left in the
shade by the old wasteland road. His boots sat under the table. Davis noticed
that they had been shined. To the right of his effects were several weapons. None
of them his. There were two revolvers and several assorted knives. They had belonged to the
companions of the blonde man.
At the far edge of the table there was one more object. It was
laid flat against the table with a thick quilt with a checker pattern covering
it. Davis was now very aware of the sweat running down his face. He wiped the
sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He grabbed the quilt and
tossed it aside.
There, underneath, was the broken sword. Davis recoiled, took
a step back and almost tripped over his own stiff legs. He could almost feel
the sting of the blade as it had entered his shoulder. He could see the tiny splinters
of steel that flew through the air as this blade had shattered his own. And the
immense speed and power it had given the blonde man, who had been bleeding and
defeated. It had healed him. It had filled Elven Greene with its own horrible
light and power. And it had done all this when he had touched it.
Davis came forward. He reached out to touch the blade of the
broken sword. His hand was shaking. When he was very young Davis had touched the
edge of the cooking stove. There was no thought or reason. It had just seemed
like a good idea at the time. He had run crying and screaming to his mother,
holding his right hand. His first three fingers had been burned. His mother had
held him, let him cry then put his fingers in some cool water. After he had
stopped crying his mother hugged him and smiled. She had said that it was a
good thing that had happened. It usually takes a hard experience for a child to
learn a hard lesson, she had said. And now you know the stove is hot and to
stay away. Now you know that it can hurt you and you won’t make the same
mistake again. Through pain we learn, Davis. It’s sad but true. She had smiled
her warm smile down at him. She kissed him on the cheek and Davis ran off,
already looking for another little adventure. But Davis did not forget. Oh no,
he did not forget.
His forefinger was close to the blade, hovering just above
it. This blade had burned him. It had almost killed him for the love of fuck.
He had learned his lesson as a child. But maybe... It would do to him what it
did to the blonde man. Would it give him speed and power? Or would it somehow
recognize that Davis was not its master, jump from the table and cut his head
off? There was something to this blade. A force that seemed to radiate from it.
That grew stronger the closer you came to the blade. No light or glow, just
that force.
Davis closed his eyes and reached out. The tip of his finger
touched the blade. He expected a flash of light or some sort of pain. But,
there was nothing. The broken sword just lay on the table. Its stillness seemed
to mock him somehow. After a moment he removed his finger and picked up the
sword. It was heavy. The broken blade was sharp and bright. And despite its
clean look, the blade felt old. Very old. He sighed and put the blade back on
the table.
So much pain and suffering for this fucking thing. He covered
the sword with the quilt again and began the long, arduous tasks of dressing
himself.
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