Chapter 6
The Wastelands
After the scrubby, little pine trees had disappeared, the most exciting thing any of them saw was a rust colored boulder with a mean-looking lizard on it.
The trail, if you could call it a trail, was peppered with dead creosote bushes, tumbleweeds and small cactus that barely looked alive. Each hoof print created a swirl of sand and dust. Each horse left a wake of it, and the whole party made a cloud that was visible for miles. Andrew had a nose full of it.
It had been another weary day of riding. Andrew and Connor had stopped talking shortly after their meager lunch. Neither of them had enough energy left for even simple conversation. Finally, Mr. Miller called a halt to the day, and they all started on the evening ritual.
Making camp every night was a struggle between exhaustion, and the need to have a tent to collapse in. Supper and sleep waited for them when they were done; sometimes supper came first, sometimes it didn’t.
Andrew walked his horse around to the others, gathering each of their mounts. First Connor’s, then the two horses pulling the wagon and finally the pack animals.
“Mr. Miller?” Andrew called out.
“What is it?”
“There aren’t any trees to make a tack line. What should I do?”
“Take the four-foot iron stakes from the back of the wagon and use the five-pound hammer to drive them into the dirt. Make sure the line is tight and don’t forget to put the tie lines on the tack before you spike it down.”
“This ought to be fun,” Andrew thought, pulling Mr. Miller’s old gray toward the open area where the tack line would be.
Connor was already working on setting up the tents. Mr. Miller’s always went up first, then he put up the tent he and Andrew shared. The smell of the heavily oiled canvas had been a part of every night and day since leaving Mr. Miller’s house almost ten days ago.
Tending to the horses was long, tiring, and dirty. It seemed like Andrew was always the last one done and tonight was no exception.
He walked toward the cook fire where Mr. Miller was stirring a pot of something thin and runny, and asked, “Is it even hotter than last night?”
“We entered the Wastelands sometime after we stopped for our noon meal. It won’t get under eighty-five in the evenings, and we’ll be lucky to see anything less than one hundred and five during the heat of the day.”
“A hundred and five?!” Andrew and Connor complained.
Wiping the sweat off his head, Connor said, “That’ll kill the horses for sure.”
Mr. Miller walked over to grab his waterskin off the front pole of his tent. He held up the old brown skin and squeezed the warm water into his mouth. He only took a mouthful, then turned and faced the boys.
“We can’t travel by day anymore, it might kill us all.” He corked the waterskin and hung it back on the pole. “Besides, there’s only enough water to take us to the Kingdom. If we waste it, we’re never gonna make it across the Wastelands.”
“You mean we’re going to travel at night?” Connor asked. “What about the bandits we saw and everything you’ve been telling us about thieves? How will we be able to see any of the Wanderers? Come on Mr. Miller, how can we travel when there isn’t any light?”
Mr. Miller ignored the questions. Turning to Andrew, he asked, “Was the five-pound hammer heavy enough?”
“Yes, sir. I hit a few rocks when I drove the spikes in and had to move them a couple of times, but I got them in. If the horses get spooked, I think the tack line will give out, but we should be fine if we have a quiet night.”
“It’ll be quiet,” said Mr. Miller. “The Wastelands are always quiet. I just hope we’re lucky enough to have a Wanderer before too long.”
Connor was standing by the fire looking anxiously at the stew. As he reached for the large wooden spoon in the pot, he asked, “Why do we need a Wanderer to guide us? You’ve been there before, and you and my dad didn’t have a guide.”
Mr. Miller dug around in his cook sack and produced their small wooden bowls. He took the spoon out of Connor’s hand and told them supper wouldn’t be ready for another ten minutes. As the group settled in to wait, Mr. Miller started talking, “There’ll be no need to worry about thieves or bandits now, except for the ones who might be after the book or the shield. The usual lot knows where we’re going, and I don’t think they’ll hit us now that we’re in the Wastelands. They might take a poke at us on the way back, but we’ll worry about that if the time comes.”
Through cracked, sunburnt lips, he started whistling a dry, somber tune neither of the boys had heard before. Pulling back his tent flap, he sat under the canopy and started to sing, “Bravely we enter with hope in our eyes, the journey of legend with sons at my side. The Kingdom is calling to me and to you; destiny beckons to all save a few. Some say the righteous will be given a guide, to be led through the Wastelands by a man with no eyes.”
Andrew gave Connor a sideways glance and shrugged his shoulders.
Mr. Miller continued, “Over the dunes and in through the wall, trust in your heart or the Hero will fall. The Kingdom is calling to me and to you; destiny beckons to only a few. Walk to the spire on the path with no name, but not if the journey is taken for fame. Cups is the river crossing your way, danger is lurking to sweep you away. When it flows from the source, you’ll know you’ve arrived, from under the wall comes a rushing blue tide. Walk through the door, turn and be greeted, the Kingdom is yours if you stand undefeated.
The Kingdom is calling, the path is still clear; don’t take the risk if you have any fear. A champion emerges glowing with Light, all other journeys end on this night. The Kingdom will rise from the ashes of old, bound by a love that cannot be tolled. Come to me Hero, but never alone, the strength you possess is never your own.”
He whistled the rhythmic beat of the song as the sun quickly sank behind brilliantly lit clouds with pink borders, thrown up against a turquoise-blue sky.
In a few more minutes, Connor walked over to the cook pot with his bowl out, and sarcastically said, “That was really cheery, thanks. So this Wanderer, he can take us all the way to the Hero’s Chamber?”
Mr. Miller shuffled out of his tent. Filling Connor’s bowl, he said, “They can make the journey a lot easier through the foothills. And with a Wanderer as your guide, both of you will be able to safely manage the three crossings.”
“That sounds really good,” Connor said smiling. “So where can we find ourselves a guide?”
Mr. Miller tilted his head up toward Connor, and said in a sharp tone, “You don’t find a Wanderer. We’ve been over this. They find you. That’s how it works. You will never see his face, and you will certainly never see him eat or sleep. He will never speak to you, and you’ll do well to remember that it’s incredibly rude to speak directly to him. We’ll be lucky to pick one up. If we do, it will be in the next week or so.”
“If the Wanderers can live out here without shelter or homes and they can guide us to the Hero’s Chamber, why don’t they ever go in?” Andrew asked. “Why don’t they accept the challenge?”
“You know what I know from the book and there isn’t anything about them in it. The only things I’ve ever heard about them are legends and lies. The legends say they came from the Kingdom, but nobody really knows. And the lies would scare you. They’re not even worth repeating.”
“Well, how can they never eat or sleep? That doesn’t sound possible,” Connor asked.
“Wanderers are not like you and me, that’s for sure. They blend in perfectly with the Wastelands and the only time you’ll see one is if they want to be seen. It’s not as if they become part of the group. Actually, it’s just the opposite. They stay out ahead and lead the way. Lots of people think they live in the Wastelands, but I don’t see how anybody could live out here.”
Connor was sitting in his tent eating his se
cond bowl of stew when he asked, “Why do you think there isn’t anything in the book about them?”
Mr. Miller shrugged. When he finished chewing, he said, “All that really matters is they come to help.
Tomorrow when the sun sets, we’ll break camp and travel all night. Until then, I suggest we all stay up as long as we can. That way you’ll have a chance of sleeping tomorrow during the heat. After that, it should be the same routine until we arrive.”
“Just before dawn,” he said, sitting back down in his tent with a fresh bowl of stew, “we’re all going to feed and water the horses and take them for a short walk around the campsite. We’ve got a big tarp in the wagon, and we’ll put it on the long poles we brought. That should give the horses some shade during the day. At the very least, it should keep ‘em alive a little longer. Then it’s off to sleep if you can get any.”
Andrew could tell Mr. Miller was concerned about his old gray mare. She was thin and struggled with her footing in the soft terrain. Andrew wasn’t sure she could survive two months out in the Wastelands, and Mr. Miller wasn’t sure either.
They had all finished their suppers by the time the sun had sunk below the horizon, and Mr. Miller was already snoring in his tent. Connor asked Andrew if they should wake him, but in the end, they agreed to give him a couple of hours of undisturbed sleep.
It got cooler than the boys had expected. It was after midnight, Mr. Miller was still asleep, and they were trying to keep awake by poking the little fire with sticks and twigs.
Connor was holding a long stalk of grass, the end of it was on fire. He brought it close to his face, and asked, “Do you think I’ll make it?”
Andrew looked at him, blew out the little flame, and whispered, “You’re a nine-toed freak with a history of picking fights and stealing food. You’re never getting in there. It’s only for respectable people!”
Connor opened his mouth with an exaggerated look of surprise, and said, “I can’t believe you just said that! You cost me my toe! I wouldn’t be surprised if the gate knocked you down with some blue Lightning and threw you back into the Wastelands!”
They shared a laugh even if it was just to hide how nervous they were.
All of a sudden, the boys heard and felt the weight of the horses stomping at the ground, then they started going crazy.
Mr. Miller stood up before he was even out of his tent. He paid no attention to it as it crumpled to the ground, and he started barking orders, “I’ll get the lantern! Connor, get the two swords from the rack. Andrew, get the shield from the wagon as soon as we know the way is clear! Andrew, did you hear the tack line break?”
Andrew was startled by the sound of the horses and by Mr. Miller’s urgent commands. “I, uh, no…no sir. We were just talking, and they started up in a panic!”
By the time the words left Andrew’s mouth, Mr. Miller had the lantern lit. The flame inside the rusty, old cage threw out its faded, yellow light, casting long shadows around the camp. The wagon was between the tents and the tack line, and two of the horses ran out from behind it. Andrew stood frozen, waiting for Connor to get the swords and anxiously looking toward the sound of the commotion.
Duke’s massive black head rose above the canopy of the wagon, and Andrew and Mr. Miller took a step backward. Duke’s eyes were wide with fear. His front hooves ripped the canvas, and the spars along the middle of the wagon snapped and splintered under his weight. They heard the steel of the swords as Connor fumbled to hand one to Mr. Miller.
“Stay back!” Mr. Miller yelled. “They’re all off the tack line and Duke’s coming over the wagon! Whatever’s back there is big enough to spook him. Connor, it’s up to you and me to go see what it is.”
Duke’s front legs and chest began pushing the wagon sideways, toward the boys and Mr. Miller. The thick, wooden wheels dug into the loose dirt and Duke’s front legs rammed through the sideboard of the wagon making jagged holes in the oak planks. The canvas top ripped along the frame as Duke’s hind legs kicked and flailed.
Mr. Miller slipped around the side of the wagon with Connor close behind. Their swords flashed in the light of the lantern.
A low, dangerous snarl came from inside the wagon, and the chill of fear ran down Andrew’s spine. With a final rip, the canvas and its remaining supports separated from the wagon. Andrew looked up to see where it would land when Mr. Miller appeared from the other side of the wagon and grabbed his arm. With a sharp tug, he pulled him back toward the tents and shouted, “Watch it, boy!”
The old wagon heaved toward them plowing deeper into the sandy ground. The wooden spokes twisted and broke away from their hubs, wood snapped, and Duke screamed. The canvas thrashed wildly, and Duke’s back legs finally mounted the narrow wagon sending the whole thing toppling over. Andrew and Mr. Miller watched in disbelief as Duke’s long, muscular front legs pushed through the jagged, splintered holes in the sideboard. The smooth, black skin peeled away in strips as he pushed them through.
The old wagon careened sideways and Duke’s bloodied legs were pinned and broken under the twisted frame. All they heard was his heavy, labored breathing as a cloud of dirt and dust billowed up and around them filtering the lantern light to a barely visible glow.
“I hope you’re out there Connor because I think we’re in trouble,” Mr. Miller said to the darkness in a hushed voice.
“On my count, you need to attack whatever is in that wagon. One, two, three, NOW!” cried Mr. Miller.
Isolated and blind within the cloud of dust, Andrew and Mr. Miller heard more ripping canvas, then furious hissing followed by the snarl of a large cat.
“Watch out, it’s got claws!” Connor warned. His sword rang out, Mr. Miller squeezed Andrew’s arm, and everything went silent.
As the dust slowly cleared, the shadows returned, and Mr. Miller released his grip on Andrew’s arm. With his bloody sword in hand, Connor emerged from the other side of the broken wagon. With a blank expression, he walked right past them, dropping his sword to the ground.
Mr. Miller handed the lantern to Andrew and immediately went to the canvas covering Duke’s head. In one clean move, he cut the canvas with his blade, revealing the misery that was Duke. Legs shattered and bloodied, breathing labored and shallow, Mr. Miller’s noble companion lay defeated and broken.
“I honor you and the burdens you have borne. Run free, walk in peace, and may we meet again when the time is right. God speed my friend, I will miss you more than you know.”
Mr. Miller leveled the blade of his sword and with a single compassionate thrust, Duke’s suffering ended. Mr. Miller wiped off the blade on the canvas, bowed his head and walked back to the tents.
With the lantern in hand, Andrew walked to the far side of the wagon. He tripped over shredded pieces of wood and was surprise to see that Duke had exposed the hidden shield. It reflected the lantern light around the grim scene like a thousand tiny mirrors.
Halfway out of the canvas, lying over the broken sideboard next to Duke was the head and front leg of a giant black panther. Its eyes were open, and its massive paw hovered above the ground. Andrew jumped back, almost dropping the lantern.
“Is this thing still alive?!”
“Not unless it’s got nine lives,” Connor replied. His voice sounded hollow and lifeless.
Andrew nudged the gigantic paw with his boot, but the animal didn’t respond. Stepping closer and holding the lantern low to the ground, he saw a pattern of wounds on Duke’s backside. They reminded him of a quilt from the orphanage.
Holding the lantern even closer, he could see every bloody indentation and next to it was an equally nasty bump. There were also deep scratch marks all along his backside. He held the light over the huge cat and started to recognize the same pattern within its black pelt.
Andrew stepped back from the carnage. He knew he had seen this pattern before, but it wasn’t on any quilt,
it was on Mr. Miller’s arms! He felt sorry for Duke and the wild animal. Nothing deserved the pain inflicted by the shield, nothing. With his head low and the lantern even lower, Andrew walked back to the tents.
Throughout the night, Mr. Miller and the boys unloaded the broken wagon. They wearily created three piles of inventory. Things they couldn’t live without, things they wanted to bring along, and things that must be left behind.
They placed the heaviest burdens onto the packhorses; they would carry almost three weeks of water for the entire party. The remaining horses would carry the things they couldn’t live without and most of the things they wanted to bring along. Last but not least, the three of them would divide the remaining items. No one would be riding, and everyone would have a pack full of supplies on their back.
After hours of effort and several debates on what was and was not necessary, the horses were fully loaded, and forty pound backpacks were awarded to each of the men.
Even in the darkness, they saw the vultures massing above. By daybreak, the sky would be thick with them. The smell of the dead animals was already drawing other unwanted visitors, and if they didn’t leave the area soon, they would be in danger of never leaving it at all.
When first light finally arrived, several anxious vultures landed to investigate the blistered and torn remains.
Mr. Miller gave the order, “Packs on, boys. We’re heading deep into the Wastelands, and if you’re looking for sympathy, you’ve come to the wrong place. We’ll need to make ten miles today, so suck it up and let’s get a move on.”
Andrew and Connor hoisted their packs, and they all set off on foot.
The horses were skittish as the vulture’s curiosity increased. Within an hour, the noises faded away behind them, and the circle of scavengers overhead could just be made out on the horizon.
There wasn’t any talking, there weren’t any roads, and there was no end in sight. They would continue this pace for at least two more weeks and according to Mr. Miller, they would be lucky if any of the horses survived.