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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