One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 7

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Bhanar Narak called out to the retreating High God of Fire. “Return at once, Zhíanoso! As You Yourself implied, the imperial lineage of Narakamíníkı-Sarıma and Zhuphío is directly tied to You. You are our god. I am the emperor. You are my god!”

But Zhíanoso disappeared amongst the omnipresent flames. Bhanar was alone in the inferno, left adrift by a god he had until moments ago failed to acknowledge as existing.

The god was obviously a product of his subconscious, brought about by the stress of two broken legs. But why Zhíanoso? Usually it was Bhanar’s dad who yelled at him in his dreams.

The fire swirled around Bhanar, spinning him in place, then flipping him end over end. He tumbled through the flames, immune to their destructive power, feeling only their warmth and comforting.

Those dreams with his dad always were harsh and cold, though, not like this. He felt comfortable within these flames, like this is where he was meant to be. If Zhíanoso was truly real, if He was truly the personal god of the Narakamíníkan lineage, then it only made sense that Bhanar would feel at home within His embrace.

Bhanar swam through the flames, floating on the raging heat, luxuriating in the orange glow, almost forgetting all his troubles.

Two broken legs and a madman with a handgun danced ahead of Bhanar in the fire. There was no getting around them. Bhanar stopped.

If Zhíanoso was real, He should come when Bhanar called Him. If Zhíanoso wasn’t real, He was a figment of Bhanar’s imagination, and thus should come when Bhanar called Him.

“Not quite,” replied a voice behind Bhanar.

Bhanar turned to look, but he was always tumbling the wrong direction so he never could get a clear look. It sounded like Zhíanoso though. The same mischievous chuckle.

“Why not?” shouted Bhanar. “It sure seems like I succeeded in calling You back.”

The high god appeared before his face. Zhíanoso shook His head slowly, His red eyes penetrating deep through Bhanar.

“What do I have to do to convince you of My existence?”

A broken bone melded back together, quickly coated by layer after layer of muscle and finally skin.

Bhanar tilted back away from the vision, but it stayed within his brain.

“Fix my legs? Of course! I asked for that an hour ago.”

Zhíanoso snorted a laugh from inside Bhanar’s arteries. “Simple magic tricks prove nothing. I’ve met human beings who can do this stuff.”

A lumbering beast leapt through the spiraling blaze. Body of a bear, head of a giant wolf, eyes of a lion, wings of an eagle, the monster towered over Bhanar, reaching out its enormous talons to envelop his soul.

Before Bhanar could flinch away, a gout of fire burst forth from within himself, aimed directly at the animal. The beast howled, standing on its hind legs, clashing together its shark teeth.

Bhanar fell backwards against the solid flames, tucking his head in his arms, praying the beast would go away.

Another geyser of flame shot out at the monster, singeing its fur. The god Zhíanoso stood above Bhanar, protecting him, lashing out at the multi-faceted monster.

The beast tucked its tail between its hind legs and whimpered.

The fire god had saved him. Bhanar sat up, awe in his eyes. Even if this were all a dream from Bhanar’s subconscious, his subconscious sure seemed to want Bhanar to honor and appreciate the High God of Fire. Bhanar closed his eyes and shook his head. This wasn’t making any sense.

Zhíanoso scowled at the beast. “Just who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

The monster straightened up proud on its million legs and intoned, “I am Névazhíno, God of Animals! I was called here to aid this young man, to heal his legs.”

No sense at all.

The fire god scoffed, His eyes firmly on Névazhíno. “Go play dress-up somewhere else, boy. This one’s mine.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 6

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Zhíno Zhudıro froze and listened, his wounds still throbbing with pain.

The Enforcer kept pounding and yelling, but nobody was coming to answer. Could Zhíno sneak past the front door and hunt down Fírí and whoever was hiding her? Yes, but as soon as he shot the Vítí-twin in the head, the Voro-fucking Enforcer would kick in the door, gun blazing. Zhíno would be trapped.

Ahísıhíta damn it. Can’t anything ever be easy?

As quiet as he could, Zhíno got on his feet and snuck over to the back door. It was best to facilitate a quick exit now. The deadbolt slid back with a simple turn of the lever. Zhíno tested the knob, leaving the door a millimeter ajar.

“I’m coming!” yelled a deep-voiced man within the house.

Zhíno’s heart leapt for his throat, his pulse suddenly pounding in his head and his wounds. Trying to ignore the pain, he pulled his semiautomatic out of his trouser pocket and crept around the kitchen table to stand beside the open doorway to the front room, out of sight from whoever might be coming.

He caught a glimpse of the old rifleman bastard, the one who had shot him, facing the other way. Would the old Névo-brain let the Voro-fucker in? No, the old bastard was arguing with the Enforcer. Zhíno smiled.

A muffled voice from outside snarled, “This is Lieutenant Nıgédazo. Lieutenant Vorıso is here with me.”

Great. Two Voro-fuckers. The old man better not let them in. If the Enforcers talked their way into the house, Zhíno had to shoot first, or else he was dead.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” growled the fat bastard. “You have no need to worry. Bhanar is safe now.”

Zhíno leaned out to see with one eye. The old man stood with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the top of his bald head. Zhíno could just shoot the bastard right now, spray his brains across the door, red and pink bits sliding down the dark wood. Zhíno ducked back and grimaced. Shooting the old Zhéporé-spawn would only result in the Enforcers breaking in, chasing Zhíno further away from Fírí and the auto keys.

No, he had to wait. Hopefully the fat man would get rid of the Enforcers. And only then could Zhíno go kill Fírí in peace.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 5

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Pí‘oro Kılímo strode down the hallway in Vata’s tiny slippers, suppressing a yawn. He was much too old to be up at this hour, no matter how many poor souls Vata found to help and teach the ways of Névazhíno.

Someone pounded on the front door. “For the last time, open up! Colonial Enforcers!”

Pí‘oro groaned and shook his head slowly. The victim in the back yard--whoever it was--would have to wait. Pí‘oro had to mollify the policeman before he broke down the door.

“I’m coming,” he called.

The Enforcer stopped pounding.

Pí‘oro crossed the tile entryway and stopped by the front door. Did he really want to open it? He’d look awfully suspicious if he didn’t, but he must surely look suspicious for carrying Bhanar inside.

Might as well try to get him to leave without opening the door. “My wife is taking care of the foreign kid,” he bellowed. “We’re safe in here, away from that crazy gunman Zhíno.” A thought struck him. “How do I know you’re an Enforcer and not Zhíno?”

The Enforcer sharply retorted, “Please open the door, Mr. Kılímo. This is Lieutenant Nıgédazo. Lieutenant Vorıso is here with me. Believe me: we are with the South Saírédí Colonial Enforcers. Now open this door!”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 4

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Vata Kılímí picked her ceremonial knife off the altar, where it had lain beside her dog. The wooden hilt of the knife fit comfortingly in Vata’s hand. As she twisted her wrist, the steel blade reflected the flickering flames from all eight braziers, the dancing energy of light intermingling with Névazhíno’s gathering essence.

The blonde girl said something which cut harshly through the moment, but Vata did not comprehend the words.

She faced the young woman and said, “Be quiet now, dear.”

The girl’s mouth fell open, but she snapped it shut with a frown and remained silent.

Vata turned back toward the altar and its two sleeping creatures: the dark-haired young man with broken legs and a blood-soaked bandage over his trousers and the Kılímos’ eldest dog, who was merely sedated.

Vata held the knife up before her eyes. Along the top edge of the blade, delicate tracery caught the shimmering illumination. The decoration matched closely the carvings around the edge of the stone altar. Vata reached out with her left hand to touch the cold rock, tracing along the smooth zigzags and familiar curlicues with her fingers.

Her fingertips bumped against the base of a small chalice of purified and sanctified blood--a mixture of human, dog, horse, cow, rabbit, sheep, and several other animals. She wrapped her hand around the thick stem and held the chalice aloft alongside the knife.

She exhaled slowly. Her heart calmed. Her soul relaxed to match her body. The lifeforce of Névazhíno strengthened within the chapel, filling the room with a musky scent.

When her spirit was ready, Vata intoned, “O Névazhíno, God of Animals, Creator of All Creatures, Love of the Universe, I request Your presence.”

A low hum filled the chapel, barely discernable. The braziers guttered briefly from a circular breeze.

Vata tilted the chalice. The sanctified blood poured over the dog in a thin stream, coursing from head to hindquarters. It seeped into his thick fur, splashing only a little, staining the dark brown a scarlet-black.

“O Névazhíno, please hear the words of Your humble servant, one of Your devout worshippers, one of Your faithful animals.”

The breeze tightened around the altar, tugging at the ends of Vata’s bathrobe, pulling white hairs loose from their clasp, strengthening the animal musk till it nearly overpowered her.

She focused on the ceremony. The knife, long and sharp, pressed against the sleeping dog’s throat. His skin dented, then split, fresh blood spilling around the bright steel. The knife dug deeper, slicing through his neck until it found the artery. Crimson spurted past the dog’s head, over the boy’s broken legs, and into the surrounding darkness.

The hum transformed into a roar, a mosquito growing to a bear. Dust kicked up off the floor in a miniature demon-wind around the altar.

Vata inhaled deeply, drifting away on the thick odor of a thousand animals.

“O Névazhíno, most pure and noble of all the gods, I beseech You to hear me, listen to me, speak to me. I beseech You to bind the lifeforce of one of Your creatures into the lifeforce of another of Your creatures. Please heal this human being’s legs!”

Lightning jumped from the braziers to the altar, to the knife, to the air itself, swirling away to be melded with the palatable essence of Vata’s god. The dog’s blood flew on the wind, individual iridescent spheres of red liquid floating slower and slower despite the ever-intensifying wind. The divine spirit of Névazhíno whirled around the altar, Vata, and the two intertwined souls on the stone.

“O Névazhíno, I feel Your presence. Will You accept this sacrifice?”

Vata looked up at stars, a moonless night sky. A giant bear with insect wings and the head of a dog towered over her, His eyes glowing with every color imaginable and many others as well. The crackling vortex continued to whip around Névazhíno and Vata, enlarging the flames and knocking the grass flat.

The god’s voice resonated throughout every cell of Vata’s body. “As you wish, My faithful.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 3

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha leaned against her cruiser. Not a single automobile had passed since the ambulance left. She could see why the constabulary didn’t have a regular patrol after midnight in the Tuhanı precinct. This town is dead.

She cringed at her poor choice of words, consciously not looking at the murdered Enforcer.

Séara began pacing back and forth alongside her cruiser, her hands clasped behind her back. Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré should have been there long ago.

The radio on her belt burped. “This is Lawman Laparıpasamé. I am en route to address 5430 East Crater Road. Out.”

Wonderful. Séara huffed a short breath. She outranked Tépíto Laparıpasamé by most of a year. He should be the one guarding this crime scene, while she should be joining the hunt for the killer. Surely dispatch could have sent Tépíto over to replace her, but that just wasn’t how the constable’s office thought. No, around here, whatever you get by chance is with you forever.

Séara glanced at her wristwatch. It was already past midnight.

She pointed her face to the dark sky and yelled, “Where are you, Sétıpímo?”

Nobody and nothing responded.

She brought her gaze earthward and found it caught by the yellow racer automobile and its broken window. Séara’d had dispatch call the fix-it shop’s owner to let him know about it, but the dispatcher said he didn’t answer the telephone. Knowing Tamé, it wasn’t because he was asleep. He was probably playing cards with his brothers, drinking beers, and thus just didn’t feel like answering.

Séara sighed, almost a grumble. Tamé was just like any other man: he spent all his time hanging out with his guy friends and ignored the important telephone calls. It had been a long time since she’d met a man who was reliable in that regard--or honest, for that matter.

The distant purr of an engine grabbed Séara’s attention. A couple blocks down the road, a large sedan emerged from a cross street. Even though it didn’t have a siren or flashing lights, Séara recognized it as Detective Marıdaré’s automobile.

Finally.

As the sedan pulled up, Séara walked towards it, her hands tightly together behind her back.

The detective parked his auto alongside the sidewalk, facing the crime scene. Even after he turned off the engine, the auto’s headlights harshly illuminated the dead man and the surrounding pavement.

Sétıpímo stepped out of the sedan with a slight “oof,” pulled a pencil and yellow notebook out of his coat pocket, and walked up to the caution tape. His eyes never left the corpse and the pool of blood around its head.

“Sir?” called Séara from three meters away. “Do you require my assistance? Or shall I join the search for the suspect?”

The old detective looked at Séara for the first time. “Ah. A few questions first.”

Sétıpímo proceeded to quiz Séara about what she did when she found the body, whether she moved it or not, and all sorts of other questions that implied Séara didn’t know the proper protocol. Séara gritted her teeth and answered them succinctly and honestly.

After several agonizing minutes, Detective Marıdaré grunted and said, “That’s all I have for now. Thank you.”

Séara nodded sharply and replied, “Thank you, sir,” as she hopped in her patrol cruiser.

She started the engine, cranked the steering wheel, and gunned the accelerator. As she passed the speed limit, she flipped on the siren.

A smile crept onto her face as she repeatedly tested the release snap on her holster. Finally, she’d get to be a real police officer: protecting the innocent, saving lives, capturing the evildoers--so long as the suspect stayed hidden just awhile longer.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 2

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Fírí Parızada looked up when she heard footsteps stomping on a wood floor. She couldn’t see anything because they were around the corner from the hallway she sat in. The old woman, Vata, hadn’t been so loud when she left, so it must be someone else. Was it Zhíno? Had he found her?

Fírí scrambled to her feet, looking around for something to defend herself with. Nothing in the wide hall but her shoe duffel and dirt. Her only option was to flee--but what if it wasn’t Zhíno? What if Zhíno was in the back yard? She’d be running straight into a bullet. She froze, unable to choose her destiny. Which way was freedom? Which way was death?

In the chapel, the old woman murmured, “Thank you, dearest. Could you please go to the kitchen door? Someone is in the back yard. See if they need help.”

Even through her anxiety, Fírí recognized that Vata now talked different than before, as if she were floating through a dream.

“As you wish,” rumbled a man’s voice.

It wasn’t Zhíno. Fírí’s muscles relaxed. She’d done the right thing by not running out the door. She exhaled at great length and braced herself with one hand against the rough stucco wall.

“Oh,” Vata added, completely mellow, “and please use my slippers. Your feet are dirty now.”

Fírí frowned. What had happened to the old woman? Was she drugged?

“Of course,” replied the man with a biting edge that Vata probably didn’t notice in her current state.

Fírí crept toward the chapel, hugging the wall on the right-hand side so she could get right up beside the corner without being seen.

The man stomped on the wood floor again and then a door clicked shut.

Fírí peered into the chapel.

Inside the circle of flickering torches stood a meter-high slab of rock. Intricately carved designs zigged and zagged over its rough-hewn sides. And on top the stone altar lay the dark-haired foreign kid from the driveway.

“Vuzhí and Pétíso!” They’re going to sacrifice him! Wait, did I say that out loud?

“Dear, there’s no need to hide.”

Vata walked into view, smiling pleasantly at Fírí with eyes half-closed.

The last time Fírí had seen the foreign kid--Bhanar, his name was--he’d been ordering her to strip naked at gunpoint. Maybe letting this old hag kill him in some ancient ritual would be just what he deserved. A smile pulled up the corner of her mouth.

The old woman shrugged at Fírí’s lack of response and turned away. “Just stay out of the way, dear.”

Fírí stepped forward, fully into the chapel for the first time. She gasped.

To the side of the altar lay a horse and a dog, both in somewhat unnatural positions. Vata squatted down beside the dog, which looked like a chocolate lab but with longer hair.

“You killed them!” Fírí rushed forward, but stopped short, still outside the circle of torches, as if her subconscious knew she’d be tainted by evil if she penetrated that boundary.

Without looking up, the old woman replied, “They all live.”

“But. . .” Fírí stood with mouth slightly agape. What is going on here? Why are there animals on the ground? Are they drugged? Is Bhanar? Is Vata about to pass out, too, drugged the same way? That old man must have got them all: Bhanar, Vata, and the animals. He’s going to kill them! I have to get out of here before he finds me and kills me, too.

The tiny old woman picked up the dog, which seemed far heavier than she could carry, and set it down on the altar beside the foreigner.

“What are you doing?” asked Fírí. “We’ve got to get out of here, before the old guy comes back. We need to find an antidote!” She stretched her hand out toward Vata, leaning as far as she could over the imaginary line between two torches, straining to extend her arm further.

The old lady turned to face Fírí, lifting up a long knife. “Be quiet now, dear.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 7, page 1

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Chapter 7: Powers of Good



Zhíno Zhudıro hurried through the darkness toward a dim light in a small window. Less than a meter to the right of it, the shadowy forms of a screen door and tiny porch presented themselves. The light in the window wasn’t bright enough to be from that room, which meant probably nobody was near the door.

Zhíno smirked. Fírí must have gone somewhere else in the house, probably cowering in a closet.

He slowly opened the screen door. It squeaked quietly, but he doubted anyone heard it. He pressed his ear to the wood door and listened.

Several deep thuds, like someone stomping across the floor. A distant rumble of a man’s voice. Perhaps it was that same fat Zhéporé-spawn who’d shot his wrist. The Koro-brained hicks who lived here must’ve let him inside.

Zhíno’s wrist started throbbing in sharp bursts of pain. He did his best to ignore it. He had to concentrate on getting those automobile keys from Fírí. It was too late to change his plan, too late to load the boxes to the stolen Enforcer cruiser. The weapons sat in the Sonla’s trunk, so he had to get the keys to the Sonla.

The old fat man’s talking and stomping disappeared, to be replaced by nothing.

What if that Zhéporé-spawn actually lived in this house, and wasn’t from the truck? It was a possibility, but it didn’t change things much.

Zhíno turned the doorknob. Locked. Finally, someone in this town knew how to lock a door!

A grimace of ironic pleasure on his face, Zhíno stepped back, closing the screen door slowly. He eyed the window. If he could open it, it would be large enough for him to squeeze through.

With his uninjured right hand, Zhíno pushed upward on the lower pane of glass. It slid partway up, then jammed. He grabbed the bottom edge and jiggled it loose, then shoved it upward.

A few seconds later, Zhíno had his nose down in a bleach-cleaned kitchen sink, his legs still kicking outside, his broken left wrist radiating pain, and his right shoulder throbbing in an attempt to keep up with his other gunshot wound.

He pulled himself sideways with his right arm, wriggling his waist and legs through the window and onto the counter. He promptly fell onto the floor.

Lying in agony on the cool linoleum, Zhíno gritted his teeth and turned his head to look toward the light in the next room. Between table and chair legs and through an open doorway, he saw a blank television, a couch, and a couple chairs. And a window directly across, which meant it was the front of the house. If anyone had been in that room, they’d surely have come running when Zhíno fell off the counter. Therefore the fat bastard and Fírí must be somewhere else in the house.

He felt his pocket for his handgun. It was almost time to use it again.

As Zhíno started to sit up, someone pounded repeatedly on the house’s front door and yelled, “Open up! This is the Colonial Enforcers!”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 8

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Vata Kılímí held the receiver to her ear as the telephone continued to ring. It was terribly late at night to be calling Ríko, but she had little choice. The constabulary would surely be calling him shortly, in any case. He would be woken either way.

After numerous rings, the judge picked up his receiver and growled, “Hello?”

“Good evening, Ríko dear. This is Vata Kılímí. I apologize for waking you, but I fear the situation is so dire as to warrant it.”

Ríko’s tone lightened somewhat, but his voice remained full of gravel. “It’s good to hear from you, old girl, no matter the hour or situation. It has been far too long since I saw you and Pí‘oro.”

If you came to the Temple of Névazhíno more than once a month, perhaps it would be shorter. “We are all busy, I’m sure you know, with one thing or another. How is your daughter doing?”

The judge paused before replying, “Very well, thank you. I don’t know how you did it, but she’s fully recovered.”

“It was Névazhíno, not I, who healed your daughter. I merely acted as His conduit.” Vata closed her eyes and pursed her lips as she formulated her next words. How best to ask his aid?

Out in the back yard, the animals became agitated. Had the blonde girl exited the house? No, Vata could still sense a person in the chapel. Someone else must have entered the yard. Perhaps it was the blonde’s boyfriend; perhaps it was another victim looking to hide.

Ríko filled the silence. “Well, old girl, you didn’t call me up to chat about this and that. What’s the trouble?”

Vata let out a quick sigh. “There has been a shooting near our house. Rumor has it that a Colonial Enforcer was killed. It’s possible the police will believe the murderer is hiding in our house, but I want to assure you that it is not so. I beg of you: if they ask you for a search warrant for our house, please refuse.”

The telephone line hummed silently. Ríko was thinking about it much too long. As every second passed by, the chances of his agreeing to Vata’s wishes dwindled sharply.

The animals in the back yard had calmed significantly, especially the dogs. If they liked whoever had intruded their yard, then surely it couldn’t be the murderer. It had to be someone else for her to aid.

“Vata, you’ve always been good to me and my family,” growled Ríko finally. “This is an extremely unusual request you’re making. Perhaps ethically, I should have hung up the receiver a minute ago. But I trust you, I must say. And therefore, I will not sign any search warrant for your house if it is based on guesswork or extreme circumstantial evidence. Mind you, though, with the murder of a policeman, the level of required suspicion is fairly low. If they come at me with footprints, third-hand eyewitness accounts--anything indicating that the killer is in your house--I’ll have to sign it.”

Vata nodded, even though the judge couldn’t see her. “I understand. Thank you, Ríko.”

It would have to do. She couldn’t press him further.

“You’re welcome. And Vata old girl, it truly is nice to hear from you. Perhaps next time, it can be a social call?”

Vata smiled. “Of course, dear. Go in His name.”

“Go in His name.”

Vata set the receiver back in its cradle. Crisis momentarily averted, she began the long walk to the kitchen door. Another victim of the gunman needed her help.

The front door slammed shut. Pí‘oro had returned. Vata could feel his presence, agitated but staunch.

“Vata?” her husband bellowed.

“Back here,” she called as she exited the bedroom.

The big man’s lumbering footsteps seemed particularly heavy as he approached the corner in the hallway, nearly shaking down the house with each footfall. He must be carrying someone.

Vata stopped beside the linen closet door and waited, hand firmly on the door knob.

Pí‘oro rounded the corner. He was indeed carrying someone over his shoulder. It appeared to be a young man, from the baggy style of trousers. Pí‘oro’s own trousers--nightwear, actually--had dirt on the knees and sides, as if he had been rolling on the ground. His feet, however, were bare and clean.

“His legs are broken,” huffed Pí‘oro. “I think he’s passed out.”

A warm chill of exhilaration raced through Vata’s body. Finally, someone to heal. The victim in the backyard would have to wait. It had been months since Vata’s last joining with Névazhíno. At last, she’d feel his loving embrace once again.

She opened the closet door and reached into the shelving to unhook the hidden latch. It slid loose and the shelves swung away from her with a nudge.

Pí‘oro entered the chapel ahead of Vata, a cautious hand blocking the young man’s black-haired head from the door jamb.

Closing the doors behind her, Vata stepped into her chapel dedicated to Névazhíno, the God of Animals. She could already feel His energy coalescing around the chapel, around the flaming braziers, around the altar, around the sleeping horse and dog, and around Vata herself.

As she let herself be drawn in, a glazed smile spread across her wizened face. Her god awaited.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 7

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Pí‘oro Kılímo held Bhanar steady on his shoulder as he walked up the driveway. The foreign kid’s rear end stuck up in the air, his broken legs dangling in front of Pí‘oro.

Bhanar seemed to have blacked out. He moaned occasionally, but was otherwise limp. Surely he’d survive long enough to get to the chapel. Vata had had plenty of time to prepare for the healing ceremony, so there wouldn’t be any waiting once he got the kid there. Soon they’d have Bhanar back on his feet and back to living his life as if nothing had happened, all thanks to the power of Névazhíno.

As Pí‘oro turned onto the cement path to the front door, he heard the Colonial Enforcer shout from the other end of the driveway.

“Hey! Stop right there! Where are you taking him?”

Without pausing or turning to face the Enforcer, Pí‘oro bellowed, “It’s not safe out here.”

Bhanar groaned.

The Enforcer yelled, “Stop! The ambulance will be here shortly. You can’t move him!”

Pí‘oro snorted a laugh. He obviously could move the kid. And Vata was going to heal up Bhanar better and quicker than any hospital ever could. This foreign kid had saved his life; there was no way he would let Bhanar live in pain for a month while his legs slowly healed. Not when he had a better way.
On top of that, Pí‘oro had an obligation to help those in need, no matter how much trouble the Enforcers were going to give him for it.

“Stop right there!”

Balancing Bhanar with one hand, Pí‘oro reached out and opened the front door.

If he hadn’t married Vata, he wouldn’t have this obligation to Névazhíno riling up the authorities. But if he hadn’t married Vata, he wouldn’t have had the happiest years of his life. There’s always a give and take.

Mindful of Bhanar’s head and broken legs, Pí‘oro stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 6

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Zhíno Zhudıro unlatched the large chainlink gate and swung it outward just enough to let himself in. Koro-brained hicks didn’t lock their automobiles and they didn’t lock their gates. He stepped inside and silently shut the gate behind him. He left the latch up, just in case he needed to make a quick exit.

To his right, a small shed hunkered in the darkness. Was the twin of Vítí hiding in there?

Before Zhíno could take a step forward, a small dog ran up to him, wagging his white tail.

“Hey there, boy,” Zhíno whispered, squatting down and scratching the puppy behind his ears. “Have you seen a Tara-fucking blonde whore come through here?”

A bigger dog trotted up, his dark hair making him nearly invisible in the night, and nosed the puppy aside.

Zhíno gave the big dog a cursory scratch and stood up. Nice dogs, but useless.

Several other animals roamed the fenced-in yard. Sheep, pigs, goats. Shouldn’t they be asleep? They’re all pacing around like it’s the middle of the day. Fírí must’ve woken them up. They’re going to make tracking her footprints impossible.

Zhíno ran the few steps to the shed and peered inside. A horse looked back at him from behind a wood rail. He ducked down to see through her legs, but Fírí wasn’t there.

On to the next shed he jogged, dodging a deer in the process. The animal bounded away into the darkness. Zhíno squinted after it. A deer?

The next shed held a pair of cows, huge eyes gleaming in the night, but no Fírí.

Zhíno paused. He’d seen a light earlier, which must’ve come from the house. Someone had been out here and briefly turned on a light or opened a door. Fírí would rather die then get all filthy hiding with these animals. The twin of Vítí had to be inside.

Circling a starlight-reflecting watering basin, Zhíno headed for the dark bulk of the house.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 5

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Bhanar Narak quickly fell unconscious from the pain. Bright dots of colors swirled around in his skull, pulsating in his brain, growing in intensity. Warm colors. Reds, browns, yellows, oranges.

The pain swirled away much quicker than it should have. The driveway was gone, replaced by his home. There sat his motorbike, front wheel lying on the concrete floor, tools scattered around. Faint strains of a Blood Puppy song wafted from his stereo speakers.

It was his garage at home, but something was off. The concrete floor shimmied an odd tint of orange. The posters on the walls blurred and wavered with random regularity. Objects in his peripheral vision faded to oblivion.

Bhanar spun around to find Zhíanoso, the High God of Fire, standing before him. He knew it was Zhíanoso even though he had never seen Him before. Who else would have fingers of flames flicking from His robes and such a stern yet impish smile upon His face?

“Hello,” Bhanar greeted the god, for the lack of anything better to say. How else do you address a figment of your pain-induced dream?

Zhíanoso scratched His ruddy goatee. “Good evening. Come here often?”

Bhanar looked around. His garage was gone. No ground, no air, no water, no metal, no nothing. Just fire.

“Um. . .” Bhanar’s head felt full of fluff and his legs grew weak. Were they still broken? Bhanar looked down. Yes, his legs were still broken, and yet there he stood, his feet firmly planted on solid flames. He’d never had a dream anything like this before.

“Never mind that, Bhanar.” Zhíanoso flicked His hand between them, regaining his attention. “Pay attention to the real world. What are you doing? Pointing your rifle at strangers? Threatening to murder everyone? That is hardly honorable behavior for an emperor. Respect your linage: King Furoíso, King So‘osolopo, Emperor Zéhé, and all the rest!” He shrugged. “Okay, maybe not So‘osolopo.”

“I. . .” Bhanar shook his head. If this was a dream, it was both the most otherworldly and the most real dream he’d ever had. If it wasn’t a dream, then that meant this truly was the god Zhíanoso. But that couldn’t be. Zhíanoso and the rest of those gods were made up by ancient rulers to impart morals and such on the populace. He didn’t exist.

The High God of Fire laughed, His body shimmying with flames. “Oh yes, I exist. I’m your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson, after all.”

“My what?” Bhanar frowned. Could the god could read his thoughts?

Zhíanoso grinned at Bhanar, somewhat condescendingly. Around His neck hung a large five-pointed ruby, red as a hot coal. The five points radiated out all in a circle, like petals on a flower. The jewel exuded heat. The necklace was power. The ruby was the Universe, the essence of Zhíanoso’s strength. If he had that jewel, Bhanar could do anything. He could exact his revenge on Zhíno. He could teach Pí‘oro a lesson or two. He could be the commanding emperor that everybody wanted and make everybody do exactly what he told them.

“No.” Zhíanoso lowered an eyebrow.

“What?” The god obviously could read his thoughts, but how? Bhanar tilted his head with a frown. Zhíanoso should be able to read his thoughts. He created the Universe, after all. He must be powerful.

The High God of Fire shrugged. “Yes I’m powerful. Yes, this jewel is powerful. But I’m not giving it to you.” He smirked with a little headshake, bits of fire radiating from his red-orange hair. “Maybe in a couple years. You’re not ready for it yet.”

Bhanar shook his head violently, mouth agape. “But it would solve my problems now.”

“And create a myriad of others.” He clicked His tongue. “No, you must first learn how to act like an emperor--how to be responsible, honorable, considerate, respectful.”

“But I am all that stuff!” And yet Bhanar knew he wasn’t.

“And humble.” The god chuckled, his coat of fire shedding tiny flames. “Now really, be honest with yourself. Have you ever taken the time to understand someone else’s point of view? The media’s, perhaps? The general public’s? Or how about your father’s?”

Bhanar scowled. “You’re telling me You brought me here just to give me a talking-to? Just to say ‘be a good person’? I’m in dire trouble, with two broken legs and a madman shooting at me, and You’re not going to help me?”

Zhíanoso smirked. “Hey, don’t be greedy. You called Me, after all, and I came.”

Bhanar’s head reeled. He’d called Zhíanoso? How?

The fire god laughed. “Enough of this jibber-jabber. I can’t stand around chatting till the end of time.” He laughed harder, as if this were a joke.

“Wait!” Bhanar reached toward Zhíanoso. “If I called You, I called You for help, right? And You responded to me. You came to my aid. So why don’t You help me? Even if You can’t give me that wonderful ruby necklace, You can help me in some other way, right?”

Zhíanoso frowned thoughtfully for a few moments of eternity. Finally, He nodded slowly, His smile growing. “Very well. Here is your aid: When you get to the springs, follow the water.”

Springs? What? “Like water coming out of the ground?”

The god nodded. “Precisely.”

“But You’re a fire god. Why are You telling me to follow water?”

Zhíanoso shrugged expansively, burning a brighter red. “You asked for My help and I provided. Now stop complaining and grow up.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 4

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Vata Kılímí climbed the two wooden steps up from the dirt floor of the chapel, slid her feet into her slippers, and cautiously pulled open the door. The door was nearly a half-meter thick, with shelves of neatly stacked sheets and towels visible on the opposite side. A regular, thin door still separated Vata from the hallway.

She paused and listened. No sounds came from the hallway. Apparently Pí‘oro had not brought anyone inside. There was no need for secrecy at this time.

Vata pushed open the thin, wood door as she pulled the shelves shut behind her. As she stepped onto the plush carpet of the hall, the door of shelves clicked shut and suddenly seemed nothing more than a standard linen closet.

She closed the closet door and shuffled the short distance to their bedroom, then angled across the room toward the telephone.

This young blonde girl was obviously very scared. She hid from both her boyfriend and the police. The boyfriend would be easy to keep out, but the police might be more difficult. If they suspected a murderer--especially a murderer of an Enforcer--was hiding inside Pí‘oro and Vata’s house, it wouldn’t take much for them to obtain a search warrant.

And then they would not only find the blonde girl, they would discover the Kılímos’ hidden chapel. Questions would be raised. The sacrifices would be brought into the open. Vata would probably go to prison. And once in prison, it would be extremely difficult to continue her mission of healing and charity in Névazhíno’s name.

Vata reached the nightstand and its telephone. She picked up her private book of telephone numbers and began thumbing through.

It was extremely useful that Tuhanı was such a small town. Only one judge could issue warrants for this precinct: Ríko Rapımaré.

Vata found his number in her book, picked up the receiver, and began to dial.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 3

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Fírí Parızada stared ahead of her as the old woman closed the door with a gentle thunk. She was safe. But where was she? Vuzhí and Pétíso! What kind of room is this?

The lighting flickered and wavered, apparently coming only from a circle of torches stuck in the ground where the room expanded out from the hallway Fírí stood in.

The floor was dirt, hard-packed and ruddy brown. The ceiling was black and sloped, probably the bottom of the roof, with exposed beams flying here and there. All the walls had been painted with brown and black patterns which combined the ancient symbols for the earth gods and the Huro Hexad gods. The earth god in that hexad was Névazhíno, the God of Animals, which would help explain the menagerie in the yard. But it didn’t help explain why this woman had what was apparently a chapel dedicated to Névazhíno within her house, or why she had brought Fírí there.

The old woman walked around Fírí and looked up at her. “My name is Vata Kılímí. I am a worshipper of the Creator of All Creatures, the Love of the Universe, Névazhíno. Welcome to our chapel.”

Fírí took a hesitant step backwards. What on Kara had she stumbled into?
The old woman--Vata--showed concern on her face. She reached a withered hand towards Fírí.

“Do not be afraid, dear. My husband and I are here, in Névazhíno’s great honor, to help everyone.” Vata lowered her hand. “Now please, tell me who you are hiding from. I must know, or else I cannot fully protect you.”

Was this old woman sincere? Fírí had never heard of any crazy Névazhíno cults. She’d never seen news stories on Névazhíno worshippers who kidnapped, imprisoned, and did who-knows-what-else to random passersby. But that didn’t mean such cults didn’t exist. Maybe they were good at hiding. Maybe it was a new craze.

On the other hand, Fírí was momentarily hidden from Zhíno--so long as Vata didn’t let the pot-bellied bastard in.

Fírí tilted her head to the left and tucked her hair behind her right ear, pursing her lips.

“I’m hiding from my ex-boyfriend, Zhíno Zhudiro. He’s about 180 centimeters tall, short light brown hair--receding--with two days of beard on his face--a narrow face--and he’s kind of fat and out of shape.”

The old woman nodded, her gnarled and wrinkled face impassive.

“And while you’re at it,” said Fírí, “could you also keep out the police? I think Zhíno killed an Enforcer, but that auto out front is in my name, so they might come looking for me, instead.”

Vata’s eyebrows raised up momentarily, but she nodded once again. “Very well. I shall do what I can.” She turned and started shuffling down the hall towards the main part of the chapel. She was barefoot.

As Vata walked, she said, “I must leave you alone for a short while. Please, dear, do not do anything rash in the meantime.”

Fírí dropped her duffel bag and watched the old woman disappear around the corner. The circle of dancing flames enticed her, but Fírí held resolute. There was no way she was going into that weird chapel. She yanked her gaze away and gently seated herself on her bag of shoes, focusing her eyes on the reddish dirt of the floor.

She was probably safe now, if the old woman was telling the truth. If not, death still awaited her by the hands of Zhíno.

Despite the lack of a cold wind, a shiver crawled up her spine and down her bare arms. Fírí hugged her knees tight to her and squeezed shut her eyes.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 2

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Zhíno Zhudıro sucked in deep lungfuls of air as he walked through the dark desert. He’d taken a chance at an intersection of trails and found Fírí’s footprints as a result. Soon, the twin of Vítí would be his. Soon, he’d have his auto keys back. Soon, he’d be able to deliver the guns to Gogzhuè and save his own life.

Up ahead, through some sketchy branches, a pale yellow light appeared. Zhíno pushed himself to a jog. The light quickly disappeared. He hadn’t imagined it, though. That was the house right there, a dark blob on the horizon. Someone must have opened a door. Were they coming out or going in? Was it Fírí?

A chainlink fence materialized out of the darkness. Zhíno abruptly stopped and looked at the ground.

In the dim starlight, Fírí’s footprints were barely visible, but it was quite apparent she hadn’t turned either direction. She’d hopped the fence. And so Zhíno had to hop the fence, too. Except that with one broken wrist and a flesh wound to his other arm, climbing would be just about impossible.

“Plague of Rékaré,” he spat.

The house was only a few meters to his right, but Zhíno didn’t see anything there that looked like a gate, so he turned the other way and started hurrying along the fence. There had to be a gate somewhere.

If that Vítí-twin was hiding in this backyard, she was as good as dead. If someone had let her inside the house, it wouldn’t just be Fírí who he’d kill.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 6, page 1

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PART II: THE SECRET CHAPEL

Chapter 6: Divine Inspiration



Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha of the Pívo County Constabulary looked at her wristwatch. Her shift was supposed to end in fifteen minutes, at midnight, but that schedule was out the window. A Colonial Enforcer had been murdered.

Séara had been the first on the scene and was still the only police officer around. She’d reported the location, cordoned off the area with yellow plastic tape and orange pylons from her cruiser’s trunk, and searched the immediate area. But her main purpose now was just waiting for the detective to show up.

He’d been woken up a half hour ago when Séara found the body. He didn’t live that far away; he should be there by now.

The murderer was on the loose, last seen out by the Kılímos’ house. Séara should be over there, hunting him down in the desert. She’d seen the Kılímos just that morning, at the Temple of Névazhíno. Mrs. Kılímí had been as exuberant as always; Mr. Kılímo had been his wonderful, gruff self. If this you-know-what murderer had hurt the old couple in any way, Séara would certainly be shooting at him without much provocation.

If she got the chance to hunt him, that was.

A cool breeze danced across her face and Séara imagined herself riding a horse down a dusty trail, following hasty footprints of a fugitive criminal. But no, here she stood on a quiet city street with nobody but a dead Enforcer for company.

Two more years. In two years, she’d have the seniority needed to apply for the equestrian squad. She’d survived her first year on the force, and they say if you don’t quit in the first year, you probably won’t quit anytime soon.

Séara stared up at the stars, barely visible thanks to the nearby street lamp and her cruiser’s flashing red and green lights. Well, if I don’t get on the equestrian squad in two years, I will quit. I can always go be a schoolteacher like Mom wants.

Her mother was always complaining that policework was too dangerous, but Séara had never even drawn her gun yet, in the line of duty. Plenty of time on the shooting range, which was fun and all, but she’d never been forced to test herself in a real-life situation. Maybe, just maybe, if Detective Sétıpímo arrived anytime soon, Séara would be able to join the hunt for the murderer and test her marksmanship in the open field.

Séara looked over the crime scene once again. A yellow racer auto had its door ajar, the window behind it smashed in. The murderer must have been trying to steal it when the Enforcer showed up. Why would anyone kill a policeman over a stolen auto? It just doesn’t make any sense. Maybe she was reading the scene wrong. Maybe there was something else going on. Her opinion didn’t matter anyhow. That’s what Detective Sétıpímo was for.

The sound of an approaching siren forced Séara to look up. It wasn’t a police siren, however, but an ambulance. Tuhanı didn’t have a hospital, so that meant the ambulance had to come from all the way up in Sémı’aréíso. And they still beat the detective there.

The driver turned off the siren as the ambulance pulled to a stop, but left his red strobe on. Mixed with her cruiser’s lights, the street resembled one of the nightclubs in Éíkızo that Séara hoped to be at tomorrow night.

The driver and another medic hopped out of the ambulance, running up to Séara.

“We need to check the victim,” stated the driver, his eyes already on the dead Enforcer.

“Go ahead,” replied Séara with a hand to the corpse. “He was shot in the face.”

The medics ducked under the yellow tape and scurried to the body.

Séara didn’t know why the medics bothered to stop here. Did they not believe her original report when she said the man was dead? She’d heard on the police radio that the murderer had run over a foreign civilian with the stolen cruiser. Surely these medics needed to go save him.

The medics straightened up. “He’s dead,” one of them sighed.

Séara bit her lower lip.

As they ducked under the tape again, one of the medics asked, “You’ll stay here, right?”

Séara nodded. “I’ll be right here. Don’t you worry.”
“Don’t let anything happen to his body,” the driver commanded over his shoulder as he hurried to the ambulance.

Before Séara responded, their doors slammed and the ambulance accelerated eastward down the street, siren blaring. And Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha was once again alone with the dead man.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 5, page 7

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Fírí shivered. This night of her death was cold and getting colder.

No! Don’t think like that. You’re not going to die. You’re going to get out of this. That old lady is going to help you.

But it had been so very long since that woman disappeared back into the house. So very long. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t going to survive the night. Thus ends the life of Fírí Parızada, mourned by no one, shunned by all.

A mostly white puppy tentatively approached where Fírí sat, its head down and its tail wagging.

Come here, Fírí thought, extending a hand towards the dog. Come warm me up.

But the puppy jerked away from her hand and vanished in the darkness.

Why does this always happen to me? I reach out to the puppy; it runs away. I ask the old lady for help; she locks me out of her house. I try to stay good to Zhíno, stand beside him; but he gets all paranoid and starts shooting at everybody in sight. I do everything in my power for my parents’ approval--study hard, come home early, and all that; and they shun me as if I never existed. For all they care--for all anybody in any of the worlds cares--I might as well die tonight. No one would care. No one would notice.

Fírí slumped against the cabinets, letting her arms drop to the duffel bag on which she sat, lacking the motivation to any longer hug her legs for warmth. This was it. Zhíno would arrive and kill her. Or, if that old man and kid pair got there first, they’d probably rape her first and then kill her. No point in fighting it any longer. It was going to happen, and nobody cared.

Next to Fírí’s shoulder, something creaked a long, low groan. She slowly turned her head to look.

Yellow light spilled into the yard from a giant rectangular hole in the house. It was as if a huge section of the wall had just disappeared.

How odd.

The old woman stepped into view, peering into the yard. She seemed out of breath for some reason.

“Hey,” Fírí murmured. “You came back.”

The woman snapped her head down at Fírí. “Oh, there you are, dear. You gave me such a fright. Please come inside quickly.” She looked up again to scan the yard, as if she, too, expected Zhíno to arrive any second.

Leaning against the wall and the cabinets, Fírí pushed herself to her feet. She was saved. This old woman hadn’t abandoned her.

Feeling suddenly hale, Fírí snatched up her duffel bag of shoes and money. She might yet get a chance to spend it. She might yet survive the night.

She stepped through the doorway.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 5, page 6

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Bhanar Narak lay at the edge of the driveway, clutching his empty rifle to his chest. He knew he should stop the bleeding from his shin’s compound fracture, but he felt a little light-headed and it was so much more comfortable to just lie there and not move at all. He could almost ignore the pain if he didn’t move.

Above him, two men spoke. Had Zhíno joined Pí‘oro? Were they partners in crime, now just standing there watching while Bhanar bled to death? The second man talked down to Pí‘oro and the old man answered dutifully. Was Zhíno the boss and Pí‘oro his flunky?

Or was this someone else entirely? Pí‘oro was a good guy, right? Demeaning, slow-witted, and annoying; but good. He wouldn’t be obsequious to some Zhéporé-spawn idiot assassin. Maybe the other guy was a police officer.

“Bhanar?” asked the policeman. “I have to move your leg to stop the blood. It may hurt.”

He spoke with precise enunciation, slow enough for Bhanar to understand. Maybe he didn’t need extra lessons in the Sariman language, after all. Maybe just all the Sarımans needed to stop mumbling.

“Do it,” Bhanar replied and gritted his teeth.

Hands gripped his right leg on either side of the break, sending shivers of agony rolling up Bhanar’s body. They lifted his leg into the air, tightening something around the break, squeezing the splintered bones against each other. Bhanar pressed his head into the ground, grinding his scalp against the gravel, his face twisted shut. His hands clenched themselves white around the barrel and stock of his rifle. He bit both his lips together and iron blood filled his mouth.

Eventually, they lowered his leg to the ground and released it. Sparks of pain continued to dance throughout his body, but Bhanar forcibly relaxed his muscles, loosening his grip on the rifle and sinking against the ground. He unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly.

He was correct; it was a policeman. He wore an ink-black uniform just like back in Zhuphío, shiny shield badge on one pocket and a nametag above the other. Too dark to read it, though. His very short, blond hair glowed like a fuzzy halo with the house lights behind him.

“Stay calm,” said the policeman. “I called an ambulance.”

Bhanar took a deep breath and replied, “Get Zhíno.”

The blond man nodded. “We will. I called for backup.” He reached out one hand towards Bhanar, palm up. “I am a Colonial Enforcer. I need your rifle.”

Bhanar was safe now. The police were here. The Enforcer had called for backup. The bastard Zhíno would be arrested, he would be imprisoned, and maybe--just maybe--he’d be put to death. What were the Narakamíníkı-Sarıman laws on capital punishment? Does he actually have to kill someone, or is intent enough to execute the Zhéporé-spawn?

The Enforcer repeated, “Your rifle, Bhanar,” his hand still extended.

“Yes.” Bhanar held up his bulletless gun.

The policeman took the weapon with clean rubber gloves. He stood up and asked, “Are you well enough for questions?”

Other than the constant agony and light-headedness, Bhanar felt fine. He propped himself up on his elbows. “Yes.”

“Very well.” The Enforcer nodded crisply. “I will return soon.” Carrying Bhanar’s rifle at almost arms-length, the blond man strode down the driveway.

Pí‘oro stepped in front of Bhanar. “Let’s get you inside, son, where it’s comfortable. And safe from Zhíno.”

That’s right. Zhíno’s hiding in the desert somewhere and us two now don’t have any protection. He didn’t really care to go inside the old man’s house, but it was better than lying in the driveway. Zhíno was already a lot closer than any ambulance or Enforcer backup could be.

“Let’s go,” Bhanar replied.

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