One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı hardly paid attention as the cute policewoman processed him. She and an older policewoman took his wallet and keys, filled out some paperwork, took photos of him holding a signboard, and spoke in abrupt, emotionless phrases. Bhanar’s mind was on Pí‘oro.

The old man was dead. The policewomen knew it. It was obvious from their tone and actions.

How could this happen? What kind of universe did they live in that police could beat up an old man so much that he shortly thereafter dropped dead with a heart attack or blood clot or aneurysm or something equally horrific?

If Pí‘oro’s wife could call Zhíanoso to heal Bhanar’s legs, then surely she could--and would--call Him to bring her husband back to life. Pí‘oro wasn’t an emperor, like Bhanar, with genealogical ties to the High God of Fire, but he was certainly a devout worshipper.

Or had the old woman said she called the god Névazhíno?

Bhanar frowned, biting his upper lip.

She had said a lot of stuff he didn’t understand, thanks to his limited understanding of the Sarıman language, so maybe he misheard her. Yes, he must have misheard her.

The older policewoman led Bhanar through another door to a stark hallway lined with several holding cells. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting grim illumination on the scuffed-up yellowish walls and vinyl-tile floor. The cells were separated from the hallway with heavy steel bars running both directions. They were separated from each other with smooth concrete walls, painted the same sickly yellow as the hallway.

Bhanar turned back around to see past the door before it swung shut. The younger policewoman--the other had called her Nulıpésha--stared wistfully at him, her eyes red from tears. Bhanar flashed her a smile the closing door cut off.

The older policewoman opened the first cell and gently pushed Bhanar inside. The cell door clanged shut behind him.

Bhanar spun around, the reality of his own troubles finally hitting him.

“Wait!” he cried as the policewoman started walking away. “Do I not get to call someone?”

The woman grumbled, “In the morning,” before opening the hallway door with one of her keys and returning to the booking room.

Bhanar stood stock still in the center of his cell.

The solid door slammed shut, filling the empty hall of holding cells with a dull echo.

He was alone. Imprisoned in a foreign country, with no contact to the outside world. Would he ever be free again?

The cell began to swim in circles, growing darker. Bhanar’s knees buckled underneath him and he crumpled to the floor.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 4

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Umo Amuéné tried to ignore his partner’s ramblings as they drove through the night, but it was difficult.

“And when the government finally begins to implement Gogzhuè’s directives, then we’ll see some real change in this country. Robberies, prostitution, gambling, adultery--all that stuff--will be completely eliminated in less than a year. The worlds just need to wake up and listen to the words of Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed be his name, and their salvation will be at hand. It’s so simple!”

Lango paused, his breath accelerated. His hands, though, kept fiddling with a pen or something else that Umo couldn’t quite see in the darkness. It produced a clacking noise every second or two.

“Mm-hm,” replied Umo.

As Lango resumed his repetitive rant, Umo tried desperately to form a coherent thought.

The simplest circumstances would be to find both Zhíno and the guns, out of sight of the police. They could take the weapons and--maybe--shoot Zhíno dead. This scenario was highly unlikely.

“. . . with the short skirts they wear, they’re definitely asking for it. If you dress like a whore, you are a whore!” Lango patted his gelled pompadour with one hand. The clacking pen failed to cease. “And the music these days is utterly vile, glorifying a life of drugs, violence, and. . .”

Lango seemed oblivious to the fact that Gogzhuè’s organization dealt heavily in drugs and their methods were indeed quite violent. Cognitive dissonance disregarded by a simple mind. Umo gritted his teeth, trying with all his might to remain impassive and focus on their job.

A more likely scenario they’d encounter would be the police having the weapons in their possession with Zhíno on the loose. Even if Umo and Lango found him, there’d be a hundred policemen in the vicinity. At least then they wouldn’t have to kill Zhíno, but getting the guns would be difficult. If the guns were still in Zhíno’s automobile--

“. . . look down on us as if we’re sub-human, it’s just despicable! Gogzhuè should let us kill them more often, just to keep them in line.”

“Look, Lango,” Umo finally snapped. “I strive to emulate Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed be his name, and spread his teachings as much as the next guy, but I’m trying to concentrate on our current mission.”

As the auto continued to hurtle down the two-lane highway, Umo gave Lango a lengthy stare through his sunglasses. “So just shut up and I won’t throw you from the automobile.”

Lango’s hands ceased fidgeting as he shrunk away from Umo.

If the little twerp weren’t so knowledgeable about weaponry and computers, Umo would have killed him long ago--with Gogzhuè’s blessing.

Pleased with himself, but displaying no outward sign of it, Umo went back to driving and planning their near future.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 3

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Vata Kılímí hugged her husband tight, tears flowing down her smiling face. The wonderful Névazhíno had brought him back to life, even without a sacrifice. Their god had rewarded them for their years of unwavering devotion and proselytizing. A wave of giddiness swept over her body from head to toes. She giggled into Pí‘oro’s hairy chest.

“What was it like, dear,” she quietly asked, “to be with Him at Pétíso’s hall?” The police were still outside the front door.

With hands gripping her shoulders, Pí‘oro pushed her away. He winced. “It was wonderful, darling. Do you know where Zhíno is?”

Her eyebrows crinkled in a frown. “On the altar. Why?”

He let go of her and stepped past her, wincing again.

Vata turned to follow him. Why must he see Zhíno? She loudly whispered, “Dear?”

Pí‘oro limped to the horse and squeezed past.

“Are you still injured?” she whispered after him. “Didn’t Névazhíno heal you fully?”

Something was wrong, with both Pí‘oro’s healing and his attitude. Why didn’t he answer her? What had he seen in the afterlife? What had prevented Névazhíno from fully healing him? Had Zhíno somehow interfered? Was Pí‘oro planning to hurt the young man?

After all their dedication and devotion to the way of Névazhíno, surely Pí‘oro wouldn’t depart from that and kill Zhíno. Unless, of course, the afterlife drastically changed her husband. It certainly had some affect on him. It was still too early to know the full extent.

She hurried after Pí‘oro. As she passed their horse, she realized she’d have to lead the horse into the front room to turn her around, but Vata didn’t have time for that now. Hopefully the horse wouldn’t eat the upholstery or make a mess on the carpet.

Around the corner of the hall, a door squeaked open.

Vata hissed, “Pí‘oro!” but he didn’t reply.

Even injured and limping, he could still out-walk her by far. If Zhíno had awoken, Vata wouldn’t be around for the confrontation. If Zhíno were still asleep, Pí‘oro might kill him before she arrived. She had to trust that her husband was not as altered as she feared, or else they might fall from Névazhíno’s graces forever.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 2

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha pulled her cruiser into the Tuhanı precinct headquarters parking lot and stopped in front of the chainlink gate to the fenced-in back lot. After getting out of the car twice to open and close the gate, Séara parked it near the building’s rear entrance. In the small lot, illuminated by two orangish street lights, sat only one other automobile, and it belonged to the desk lawperson. She must be working late because of this mess, just like the rest of us.

Séara got out of the auto and, before she opened the back door, turned away from the cruiser and wiped her eyes with her shirt cuffs. She couldn’t let Bhanar see her this way, eyes all red and puffy. He had tried to be nice, tried to get her talking about Mr. Kılímo, but it was just too awful to think about. The loveable old man had passed away, and Séara had walked away without trying to help. The fact that it was her duty, her orders, was no consolation.

She sniffled and steeled her face, body, and mind. Back to work.

She swung open the cruiser door. “Out.”

The young foreign man scooted across the bench seat and slowly placed his feet on the asphalt and stood up. His dark eyes opened large, his whole face covered with placid sincerity. “I am sorry. I am. He is in a . . . better place.” He paused, frowning minutely. “He was a good man.”

Séara took hold of his upper arm and moved him aside so she could close the door. Without modifying her expression, she murmured, “Thank you.” Louder, she ordered, “Let’s go,” and guided him to the building’s entrance.

Mr. Kılímo was indeed a good man, and it spoke volumes that Bhanar had realized it in so short a time. But just because someone lived a moral, wholesome life and was now with the gods, it didn’t mean the loss hurt any less. No, it hurt even more. Never again would he teach someone how to cinch a saddle. Never again would he enlighten and entertain people with his forthright comments. Never again would he share a desert sunrise from atop Rosí Hill.

Séara could feel the tears welling again, and opened her eyes wide to fight them off.

First an Enforcer. Now Mr. Kılímo. Vuzhí and Pétíso! When are the bad guys going to start dying?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 1

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Chapter 14: Abandonment



Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré glared at Senior Lawman Vomıvé, waiting for his decision. The dozen assembled lawmen and Enforcers collectively held their breaths, or so it seemed.

The middle-aged lawman crinkled his nose and said, “I think it would be best if we don’t anger Mrs. Kılímí any further. Neither of our departments would benefit from full disclosure of the scenario that transpired within the house--and certainly not after the media’s spin.”

Vomıvé showed a hint of a smile as he said it, as if he had more reasons than that to counter the Enforcer. Sétıpímo suspected it was mostly the lawman displaying his power, like some strutting caribou buck. But if his machismo kept poor Vata protected, Sétıpímo was all for it.

The head Colonial Enforcer lieutenant clenched his teeth, staring at Vomıvé with furrowed brow. Eventually, he snorted and nodded sharply. “Agreed.”

He turned to face another Enforcer and the whole group relaxed. The two forces couldn’t be pointing blame at each other for Pí‘oro’s death. They were equal accomplices.

“Now, let’s get going on this search,” snapped the lieutenant. “Vorıso, you take your group to sweep the desert west of here. Search the boulders and anywhere else they might be hiding from the helicopter--caves, trap doors, anything.” He continued dispatching orders to other Enforcers while the senior lawman did the same with the local police.

Sétıpímo turned away from their organizing. He wasn’t a part of it. His job was to investigate the crime scenes. Since he had just succeeded in closing off the crime scenes in the Kılímos’ house, that left just the driveway and the automobiles on the road.

He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the bushes as he started walking down the cement path. The wad had lost its potency, so he spat it out, too, and took his tin from his hip pocket.

They had three vehicles with broken windows, three guns in police care, and one dead Enforcer. How lucky would Sétıpímo be if he found connections between them all? More likely, none would have any interrelated evidence, whatsoever.

A strong cup of coffee was in order, if he could get it, but that certainly didn’t seem likely. His best bet was to finish his investigation as quickly and efficiently as possible, then get a good night’s sleep.

He stuck a new clump of tobacco between his gum and cheek and put the tin away.

How efficient could he be, however, if he kept having to do other people’s jobs for them?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo sank down onto the cushion of meadow plants, his hand gripping his forehead.

The wolf--Zhíno--had to be lying. Névazhíno would never kill him. Pí‘oro worshipped Him.

“No. . .” he murmured.

Zhíno tilted his head and took a couple hesitant steps forward, his ears pricked up and his tail wagging leisurely.

A light breeze wafted the thick scent of blooming flowers up the hill. Far below in the endless lowlands, the dark clouds churned.

Was this really the afterlife? It felt too real to be a dream, and yet why would the afterlife feel any more real? But the wolf told him he was dead, killed by the God of Animals. So this would have to be the afterlife, such as it was. But why was the punk Zhíno here as a wolf? How was Zhíno here as a wolf? None of this made any sense.

Pí‘oro slowly shook his head.

A persistent nagging doubt edged its way into the forefront of Pí‘oro’s consciousness. Had he truly honored Névazhíno? Or had he drawn the god’s ire with the good-natured disrespect he directed toward Vata’s abilities? Would the Love of the Universe really kill him over something as petty as that?

“I can help you,” the wolf said.

Pí‘oro focused on Zhíno’s yellow eyes, open wide and full of dogged sincerity.

“What do you mean?”

Zhíno stepped closer, his tail waving higher.

“I can send you back. I can reunite your spirit with your body, using my lifeforce--the energy that Névazhíno took from you. You can go back to the world you’ve always known.”

The wolf was hiding something, and yet he clearly spoke honestly. Zhíno certainly believed he could bring Pí‘oro back to life. He believed he could undo what Névazhíno had done.

Whether this was a dream or the afterlife, Pí‘oro had nothing to lose.

“Do it.”

Zhíno bounded up the slope to stand in front of the seated Pí‘oro. He stuck out a paw.

Pí‘oro reached out and grasped the wide appendage, Zhíno’s fur coarse and bristly under Pí‘oro’s fingers.

The wolf closed his eyes, breathing much too slow for a dog.

Darkness edged in on them from all sides, and suddenly Pí‘oro fell into himself. The mountain was gone. The wolf was gone. Pí‘oro descended through black nothingness, falling and yet motionless.

Gradually, the plummeting sensation disappeared as Pí‘oro’s consciousness circled ever-tighter upon that which was familiar, that which was his identity, his world, his life, his body. With a final minute jar, Pí‘oro snapped back into reality.

He forced his eyes open.

A bumpy white ceiling stared down at him. Pí‘oro’s eyes searched lower. Vata walked toward him, her head bowed low and one hand on the neck their roan horse.

The horse snorted. Vata looked up and cried out.

Pí‘oro sat up, groaning. His body ached all over. Zhíno had revived him, but had not healed him fully.

Vata rushed to him as fast as her shuffling gait would allow. “Oh, Pí‘oro!” she whispered. “I thought you were dead!”

Pí‘oro fought through the pain to stand up and meet his wife with an expansive hug. “Vata, my love, it’s good to be back.” He inhaled deeply the lilac scent of her shampoo.

His tiny wife pulled away, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Back?”

Pí‘oro’s mouth moved around for a few seconds with no words forming. “I think I may have been dead.”

“Oh, thank Névazhíno!” Vata squeezed his belly tight. “He saved you.”

As Pí‘oro held Vata close, his mind rolled over what had just transpired. It wasn’t Névazhíno who had saved him. It was Zhíno. The once-murderous young man had brought him back to life. The god, however, had killed him. The god had taken his life as if he were a worthless, little solitary ant.

If Pí‘oro hadn’t properly honored Névazhíno beforehand, he certainly wasn’t about to worship Him now. The God of Animals was far crueler than His reputation as an idiot assumed. Névazhíno was a Pétíso-damned bastard, plain and simple.

But Pí‘oro doubted he could ever tell that to Vata. It would devastate her beyond belief.

And so he merely held her tight and murmured, “I love you.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 7

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Fírí Parızada had to get out of that chapel. Her unconscious ex-boyfriend remained motionless on the altar, and yet he loomed over her--mocking her, insulting her, threatening her.

The house was silent again. No police in the hall. The crazy old hag had gotten rid of them--just by yelling at them, apparently. Fírí hadn’t ventured far enough out in the hall to watch. But she’d seen plenty enough other doors in the hallway, so surely there’d be a place for her to hide, where neither the police nor Zhíno would find her easily.

Carrying her duffel of shoes and cash, Fírí slowly opened the secret door. The shelves full with towels and sheets swung quietly into the chapel. One last glance toward Zhíno encircled with flaming torches, and Fírí put her ear to the thin wood door that would swing into the hallway.

Except the echo of Vasataté’s ocean in her ear, Fírí heard nothing. She took and released a deep breath, then turned the knob.

She pushed open the door enough to peer out. Someone was there, coming toward her. Fírí froze. Close the door? Hold it still? And then she realized it was Vata.

Fírí sighed, relaxing. A shiver ran down her neck and arms. Who knew the old woman can walk so quietly? Fírí swung open the door and stepped into the hall, whispering, “You nearly scared me to death.”

Vata didn’t stop her hurried shuffle. She glanced down at Fírí’s feet, her face like she sucked a lemon. Glaring at Fírí, the old woman whispered harshly, “Get out of the way. I need to get the horse.”

Horse? What does she need it for?

Two meters away, Vata swiped her hand at Fírí. “Move!”

Fírí stepped aside. Wait. Is she going to sacrifice the horse?

As Vata passed the blonde, Fírí held out her hand in a feeble attempt to stop her. She couldn’t let the horse die, and yet she had to hide. Especially with Vata in the chapel, where she might wake Zhíno at any moment, Fírí had to hide.

Vata shrugged off Fírí’s hand and entered the doorway.

Sorry, horse, Fírí thought. I hope she doesn’t kill you.

Fírí took a couple steps away from the chapel toward an open door on the other side of the hall. The lights were on. She peered in and saw a musty bedroom with boxes piled in the corners and the sheets and blankets on the bed disturbed. Had the foreign kid been sleeping here? Where’d he go?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there now.

A yawn escaped her maw. That bed looked awfully inviting. What time was it, anyway? One, two o’clock in the morning?

Fírí stepped inside and closed the door behind her. After cramming her duffel bag behind a pair of ancient suitcases in the overflowing closet, she flipped off the lights and headed for the bed.

But no. What if Bhanar came back? What if anybody entered? She couldn’t just be sleeping out in the open.

As the police helicopter thudded in the distance, Fírí felt her way across the dark room. A miniscule amount of light crept under the door, illuminating shadows in the blackness. She circled the bed and knelt down. A half-meter separated the bed from the wall opposite the door--just enough for Fírí to lie down, hidden.

She stretched out on the dusty carpet, lying on her side. Her eyes already closed, her hand snuck into her sweatshirt pocket and removed the can of pepper spray. She clutched it with both hands in front of her chest and began waiting for sleep, Zhíno, or the police to come. Only one would she welcome, and yet it was the least likely.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 6

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré shoved through the arguing mob of policemen to get to the paramedics. “Shut the plagues up!” he bellowed at them all.

An Enforcer approached the house’s front window, apparently about to break in.

“Stop right where you are!” shouted Sétıpímo. “Don’t you dare force entry.”

The Enforcer stopped, turning around almost shyly.

Sétıpímo asked the medic, “Is Pí‘oro alive?” before resuming vigorously chewing his tobacco.

The policemen silenced to hear the response.

The paramedic wiped his forehead, his eyes darting around the assemblage. “Uh, we were performing defibrillation when the defibrillator battery died. We were--”

“Is Pí‘oro alive?” Sétıpímo snapped. Some people just couldn’t give a straight answer. He spat tobacco juice near the medic’s shoes.

The medic glanced down, then brought his eyes up to meet the detective’s. “No. He was flatlining on every scale from when we first got to him.”

Was that before or after you beat him? From the previous arguments, it had become apparent to Sétıpímo that at least one of the medics had fought Pí‘oro, along with an Enforcer and two county lawmen.

Sétıpímo turned to face the head Colonial Enforcer, a lieutenant.

“You have no authority to force entry into the Kılímos’ house. Your suspect is dead. Focus on the missing suspects who are still alive: Zhíno and the blonde woman.”

It finally hit Sétıpímo: Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. The crotchety old rancher, who was only three years older than Sétıpímo, who Sétıpímo had known since just after high school, who had always shook his head sadly at the ways of mankind and the universe as a whole, had finally joined Pétíso in the next existence. How much longer do I have? Sétıpímo thought suddenly. His jaw stopped momentarily.

The lieutenant had already begun talking. “We must double-check that the suspect is deceased. We need to question his wife. We can--”

“You don’t need to question Vata,” Sétıpímo cut in. He spat a stream of tobacco off to the side. “First of all, she’s not going anywhere--she’s got nowhere to go. Secondly, she’s not a suspect or even a suspected accomplice in this murder. Thirdly, you don’t have a warrant to go busting into houses like Rékaré when there’s no suspect inside. This is Pívo County; we follow proper protocol here. We obey the law.”

Sétıpímo glanced over at Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who might not have been following those laws quite as well as he should have, that night.

Vomıvé nodded sharply. “Exactly.” He evidently missed the rebuke in the detective’s glance.

“We don’t need a warrant,” barked the Enforcer, jabbing his finger toward the front door. “We’ve been in there already.”

“There’s nothing to be gained,” snapped Sétıpímo. “Just leave the old girl in peace!”

Why couldn’t they just leave Vata alone for one night? She wanted to be alone with her husband just awhile longer, to mourn for him, to say goodbye. Perhaps, per the rules, they should break in and take the body away, but it didn’t feel right.

The tall, blond Enforcer emitted something which might have been a growl. He narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Plague of Rívorí.” Louder, with a tight jaw, he said, “If you are following your precious protocols so precisely, then it isn’t you, detective, who decides whether we can enter this house or not. It’s the senior lawman.” He turned his head toward Vomıvé. “Well?”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı sat awkwardly in the back of the cruiser, his wrists still cuffed behind his back. A metal grating separated him from the pretty policewoman as she drove them down the two-lane highway.

She had not said anything to him and hadn’t even looked his direction, but Bhanar could catch glimpses of her face in the rearview mirror. Even though the cruiser and the surrounding desert were dark, he still thought he could see that she was crying. If she was crying, it had to be because of Pí‘oro.

“Do you know Pí‘oro good?” he asked.

The brunette didn’t respond, not even the slightest movement of her head.

Bhanar asked again, “Do you know--”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her voice strained.

“Ah.” Bhanar leaned back on the bench seat, one knee folded up on the vinyl.

If the girl wasn’t a local, she had at least been there long enough to form friendships--friendships with strange old men. Bhanar frowned.

Whatever the policewoman’s relationship with Pí‘oro, Bhanar felt he had to comfort her, somehow, to give her hope.

“He will get better. They will heal him.” Whether the “they” were the paramedics or Zhíanoso and Vata, he didn’t know. But they would heal him, right? “He cannot die, don’t you know?”

She emitted a moan of a grunt, but nothing more.

Bhanar scowled. This girl was obviously mourning for Pí‘oro, even though she didn’t know if he was dead or not. Maybe something in the police radio reports had told her that the old guy was definitely dead, but it sure had seemed like the paramedics hadn’t given up yet.

He had to get her to open up, to let her feelings out. It was the only way for her to start healing emotionally, if Pí‘oro was really dead.

And if it so happened that she and Bhanar formed a close relationship during her healing process, surely that would be all right, right?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 4

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Zhíno Zhudıro followed the trail of the energy that had healed him, back along its tendrils toward the soul of the deceased man. The path flickered and faded, stretching from one universe to another, but Zhíno never lost its track. He was a bloodhound on a scent. He was a falcon close upon his prey. He was a wolf stalking his dinner.

Névazhíno was nowhere to be seen any longer, but that hardly mattered. The god had performed a mere pittance of His power. The old man, on the other hand, had given every last drop of his life for Zhíno.

The floating line of dissipating energy coalesced in a clump of swirling particles. It had to be the man. Where he was, exactly, Zhíno didn’t know, but that didn’t stop him from leaping into the universe the old man inhabited.

His paws landing on cool grass and soft plants--a meadow-covered hillside. Ahead of him, up the hill a ways, the old man stared off into the distance. He seemed at least a decade younger than Zhíno remembered from his brief view earlier. Not nearly so plump, saggy, or bald.

Zhíno trotted up to the man. When he spotted Zhíno, he began to frantically search around, obviously in a panic to defend himself. Zhíno stopped, realizing that his form was a wolf. For some reason, he couldn’t figure out how to change it. The way he previously flitted from one animal to a next didn’t seem to work in this place.

He tried to speak. “Thank you.” Zhíno breathed out heavily, relaxing. At least this lupine body responded to his commands, however unusual they might be for a wolf. Zhíno knew how to talk, and so Zhíno-as-a-wolf knew how to talk.

The human straightened, standing tall with feet at shoulder width, and rubbed his forehead. “Um. . . You’re welcome?”

Zhíno wagged his tail and slowly resumed walking forward, making sure to stay on the downhill side the man.

“Don’t you recognize me?” asked Zhíno, dropping his ears back briefly.

The man slowly shrugged. “Should I?” he growled.

“My name is Zhíno. We met in conflict in the other world, but that is of little importance now.”

The man scowled, his eyes slits. “I’m Pí‘oro,” he quietly drawled.

Zhíno wagged his tail. “You gave your life for me, Pí‘oro. Névazhíno took your lifeforce to heal my body. And now I’ve come here to thank you for your sacrifice.”

Pí‘oro staggered, shaking his head. “No. No. What are you talking about?”

“The god Névazhíno used your energy to heal me. Don’t you remember this? Didn’t you volunteer?” The god had given Zhíno a choice of being the sacrifice or recipient. Surely He would have given Pí‘oro a similar option.

Pí‘oro plopped down onto his rear end, staring blankly at Zhíno’s yellow wolf eyes. “No. . .” was all he said.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 3

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré stood on the outside of the group of Pívo County lawmen and Colonial Enforcers. They were supposed to be coordinating and organizing the hunt for a man named Zhíno and a Narakamíníkan woman named Fírí Parizada, who owned the brown Sonla sedan, but instead they were fighting about who lost track of the suspects and who beat Pí‘oro Kılímo so much he had a heart attack.

Sétıpímo spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the desert soil and resumed chewing. He didn’t want to stay out here all night. He should be in bed right now. If these Koro-heads couldn’t resolve their conflicts by themselves, it was up to him to do it for them.

A young medic raced out of the house and sprinted past, already breathing hard.

“Men!” Sétıpímo yelled. “Men! Shut the plagues up!” He waded into the group of policemen, grabbing the first county lawman he saw. “Laparıpasamé, shut up and go stand over there--quietly!”

The young man looked like he was about to scream something, but caught himself short and replied, “Yes, sir.”

As Laparıpasamé sulked away, Sétıpímo grabbed another lawman, doing the same thing, with the same results. He then came to the red-faced Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who was nose-to-nose with one of the Colonial Enforcers. Both were yelling at the top of their lungs straight at each other, but Sétıpímo couldn’t understand either of them.
The detective grabbed Vomıvé’s shoulder and spun him around. The lawman started to throw a punch, but held himself up just in time.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!” cursed Vomıvé. “What are you doing, Marıdaré?”

Sétıpímo couldn’t help but smile as he chewed his tobacco. “What am I doing? What the plagues are you doing? You’re going to get yourself demoted if you keep this up.”

Vomıvé rubbed his eyes with one hand.

The surrounding men started to quiet down, except for a couple people yelling incoherently over by the front door. One didn’t sound like a male voice. Sétıpímo and most of the others peered past each other toward this new disturbance.

A second paramedic ran out of the house, his arms clutching his head. “She’s gone crazy!”

Behind him, Vata Kılímí screeched, “And stay out!” just before she slammed the door shut.

The younger medic raced up to his boss, clutching a plastic cube in his hand. “I’ve got the battery. What’s going on?”

The assembled men erupted into a chorus of yells.

Sétıpímo spat his tobacco, trying to miss everyone’s shoes. “Aw, plagues,” he muttered.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 2

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Vata Kılímí shuffled as fast as she could around the hallway corner. Ahead of her, two paramedics crouched over her prone husband, a young lawman standing guard. Heated voices floated in through the open front door. Pí‘oro lay on his back, his nightwear top torn open, exposing his pale, flabby chest. A lump stuck in Vata’s throat. He looked so lifeless. She couldn’t feel anything from him.

“Clear!” snapped one of the medics, two paddles on Pí‘oro’s bare torso.

An electronic whine thumped, twitching Pí‘oro slightly. The medic with the paddles leaned back, looking at the other man, who stared intently at a flickering screen on a box twenty centimeters wide. They obviously trusted their electronic gizmo more than actually putting two fingers to the carotid artery.

It was past the point that medical machines could revive her husband. Only the love of Névazhíno could bring Pí‘oro back. She had to get everybody out of the house. She had to get Pí‘oro on the altar, but that was impossible. She’d never be able to move his body, not even with Fírí’s help. Her only option was to wake the horse and bring her into the hallway and perform the ceremony there. Hopefully the hall was close enough to the chapel for Névazhíno to recognize the sacrifice and respond. Vata had nothing left but hope.

“Mrs. Kılímí,” said the lawman--Tépíto Laparıpasamé, she thought his name was--as he held out his hand to stop her.

The police helicopter thundered past, drowning out the raised voices of the arguing men outside.

Vata slowed, still two meters away from her husband’s feet. She couldn’t look at him.

“Leave him alone!” she begged, staring at the paramedics. “Show some respect for the dead!”

Lawman Laparıpasamé softly said, “They’re trying to bring him back.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door.

Vata hobbled to stand over the closer medic, who had the paddles. Laparıpasamé took a step toward her, stretching his hand in front of Vata. His attention was clearly on the argument outside, however.

“Nothing,” said the medic staring at the flickering gizmo.

“Right,” replied the other, nodding briskly. “Clear.”

Why are they ignoring me? “Leave him alone!” Vata screamed.

The machine’s whine sputtered out, only half begun.

Facing the doorway, Laparıpasamé shouted, “That’s not true!” He stormed out the door, his voice soon lost amongst the others.

The medics glanced at the dials on the box, fiddling with knobs.

“Get out of here!” Vata screeched, whapping the closer paramedic on his shoulder.

“There’s a spare battery in the case under the gauze,” he rattled to his partner. “Hurry!” Only then did he turn his attention upward at Vata.

The younger paramedic leapt to his feet and disappeared out the door.

The medic glared at Vata, his jaw tight with stubbornness. “We can still save him.”

Vata hit him again, a closed fist to the top of his head. “Get out!”

“Hey!” He held up his hands to defend himself as Vata struck again. “What the plagues?”

“He’s dead! Leave him alone! Get out! Get out! Get out!” She kept wailing away on his arms, his shoulders, his head--anything she could, as hard as she could.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 1

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Chapter 13: Brotherhood of Man



Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. He had to be. No one could survive the explosion of agony he just experienced. And now he felt no pain whatsoever, which meant he either was in a hospital on some extra-strong painkillers, or he was dead.

If he was dead, he should be at Pétíso’s great hall, ready to be judged for reincarnation by the God of Death. Perhaps His friends Sívorí and Ahísıhíta would be standing by Pétíso’s side. Surely Névazhíno should be beside Pí‘oro, there to vouch for his life of good deeds and such. But no gods were present. Nothing was present. Nothing except blackness . . . and the buzzing of insects.

He opened his eyes.

Pí‘oro lay on his side in a steep, grassy meadow, his face tilted down toward the earth. A light breeze rustled the tall grass, swaying violet and yellow flowers to and fro. Little bees danced from one blossom to the next.

“Where the plagues am I?”

He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his forehead. The hillside meadow curved out of sight to either side. Clumps of trees dotted the landscape, growing into a forest further down the mountain. A thick layer of clouds blanketed the lower reaches of the slope, perhaps three kilometers below. Scattered far in the distance, numerous conical mountains protruded from the clouds. The closest was at least fifty kilometers away, but they all looked surprisingly similar, as if they were all built from the same set of plans.

“Where the plagues am I?” Pí‘oro repeated.

This had to be a dream. No other explanation presented itself, unless this was the afterlife. But it certainly was nothing like any description of the afterlife he had ever heard. But if this was a dream, it was unusually detailed.

He stood up with surprisingly few aches or twinges in his joints and muscles. Like a dream, he thought.

Up the mountain, the meadow gave way to rocks and snow. The highest point he could see had to be a thousand meters above him, but that probably wasn’t the peak.

Somebody or something whistled sharply, a call quickly repeated across the mountainside.

Pí‘oro spun around, light on his feet, to find a gray wolf loping diagonally up the slope towards him. He couldn’t outrun it, not even in a dream. No sticks or rocks at his feet. His heartbeat swelled. Adrenaline began to flow. He braced himself to fight with his bare hands. At least he wore his calf-high leather boots, which would provide some protection and a few good kicks.

The wolf stopped five meters away, wagging its tail, its tongue lolling out.

“Thank you,” it said.

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