One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 6

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Pí‘oro Kılímo limped down the steps into the chapel, pain shooting up his right leg. His left hip throbbed in response, and it was hardly alone. The only part of his body that didn’t hurt was his left big toe, and that was probably because he lost feeling in it twenty years earlier. Zhíno had brought him back to life, but had sure done a job worthy of no one but Korutuzho.

The young man was lying on the altar, just as Vata had said. Vata must have been preparing a sacrifice to heal his gunshot wound. That would explain Zhíno’s connection with Névazhíno and ability to venture into the afterlife. Weird things happen under Vata’s spells, that’s for Pétíso-damn sure.

Barefoot, Pí‘oro hobbled across the dirt floor to the wide, stone altar. Zhíno breathed with the slow regularity of the comatose, far beyond mere sleep. Pí‘oro circled the altar to look at Zhíno’s left hand, the one that Bhanar had shot.

His wrist and hand were wrapped with a blood-soaked cotton sock and utility tape. A more common elastic bandage wrapped his upper right arm, also dark with blood. If Vata had healed Zhíno, Pí‘oro wouldn’t be able to tell without removing the bandages. Zhíno the wolf had said Névazhíno sacrificed Pí‘oro to heal Zhíno. No other sacrifices were present in the chapel, so the wolf was probably telling the truth. The only way to corroborate his story was to remove the bandages.

Pí‘oro lifted the edge of the sock-and-tape bandage, peeking underneath. Zhíno’s skin was wet with blood, but Pí‘oro couldn’t see a wound. He pulled the bandage further from the arm, carefully ripping the utility tape. Still no wound. He tugged on the bandage again and it fell from Zhíno’s arm. Despite the mess of blood, there was no injury.

The wolf hadn’t lied. The God of Animals had used Pí‘oro’s lifeforce to heal Zhíno. Why would He do that? Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead, his arm aching from the strain. Oh right. Névazhíno’s a malicious Zhéporé-spawn. I keep forgetting.

Vata entered the chapel, breathing hard. “What are you doing?”

Her black bathrobe swished back and forth as she hurried down the steps, exposing her pale legs--still shapely, but lined with purple veins.

“He’s healed,” stated Pí‘oro.

His wife stopped abruptly, her mouth pursed in a frown. “What?”

Her reaction confirmed his suspicion. “Zhíno’s wounds have been healed. Didn’t you do it?”

Pí‘oro knew the answer before Vata shook her head.

“No, dear,” she carefully replied. “I called Him. I felt His presence. I never started the ceremony, though. Névazhíno must have healed him when He healed you, all by Himself.”

Pí‘oro bristled at her incorrect assumption, but held his tongue. He couldn’t send his wife’s passion end-over-end by decrying her god. It would hurt her unfathomably.

Névazhíno had never--in their experience and all the teachings--healed someone without taking another creature’s lifeforce. It’s just the way He worked. The bastard wasn’t about to change His ways now. Névazhíno had used Pí‘oro as the sacrifice to heal Zhíno. That was a fact.

And then Zhíno had somehow revived Pí‘oro. Had he used a portion of his own lifeforce? It might explain why Zhíno was now comatose. It might explain why Pí‘oro hurt all over. It would have taken Zhíno’s full life to bring Pí‘oro completely back, completely healed. Zhíno didn’t sacrifice himself completely, and so Pí‘oro wasn’t healed completely.

Vata approached her husband, a divine smile upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes. “If He has performed two miracles without sacrifices, we are doubly blessed.”

Pí‘oro edged away from Vata. Her unquestioning devotion to Névazhíno was rather unsettling.

Grasping to change the subject, he blurted, “Should we try to wake him up?”

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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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