Sloughing Off the Rot (17 page)

“I’m surprised to admit it,” said John, “but he is my friend. And I don’t want to see him die at the hands of angry Chellovecks or other jealous men. So he needs to keep it in his loincloth.”

“Would you prefer to see him live an unfulfilled life?” asked Joad. “Would he be a better man if he were deprived of everything that makes him happy?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” said John. “I just think he has no impulse control and it’s going to be the end of him.”

And a piece of bloodwood fruit, earlier plucked from a tree that they passed, splattered on the back of John’s head. He slapped his hand to the back of his head and whirled around to see Santiago in his wrestling stance, ready for John to jump at him.

“So sorry, Johnny,” said Santiago, his unibrow twitching maniacally above bulbous, lunatic eyes. “I ain’t got no impulse control. I’m just one giant id. Fucking and eating and fighting is all I know. But whose fault is that? You made me. I come from you. I come from the water, dig? I’m just a free spirit in your valley. No impulse control, brother. Why don’t you just drop a pillar of fire on my ass. I ain’t afraid of dying. Dying’s easy. I’m afraid of living half a life. So don’t try to control me. Because you can’t get at my mind. I’m gonna think and act the way I do until I die. And I feel like tearing into your ass right now.” And he leapt, hands out and aimed for the throat, ready to bite off and eat the ear that had regenerated like a lizard’s tale on the side of John’s head.

And though quick and nimble, Santiago’s speed was no match for Joad’s reflexes. The lumbering giant demonstrated a spryness belied by his enormity and with one hand snatched Santiago by the arm, midair, and directed his landing away from John.

“Hold on there, friend,” Joad said to Santiago, effortlessly restraining the little man. “Don’t you think we should talk this out? Can you agree that John has a good point about your impulses if John can agree not to restrict your needs? Don’t you think that we’re all better off as a team instead of singly? Can’t you feel that?”

Santiago struggled against Joad’s hold, wiggling and clawing at the massive hand wrapped around his bicep. But his struggles did him no good. Joad stood, stoically, and held Santiago until he calmed. John stood ready, hands raised defensively, ready to fend off Santiago.

“Are you calm now, friend?” asked Joad. “Can I set you loose without you jumping on your friend?”

“Yeah, I reckon you can,” said Santiago. And his features slackened as he calmed himself. “I reckon he may have a point about my impulse control. I’m good now. Sorry about that, Johnny. I get a little crazy sometimes.”

Joad released his hold on Santiago’s arm. Immediately the little man leapt at John. John slapped his hands over his ears to protect them from Santiago’s teeth. And before Joad could stop him, Santiago was on John, hugging him, laughing and crying out, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, brother. I’s just so crazy sometimes. Help me with my impulse control.” And he laughed again and planted a sloppy kiss on John’s cheek.

John pulled his hands from his ears and pushed Santiago by the face, knocking him to the ground. “Get off me, you crazy bastard!” But he was not mad. Santiago and Joad felt like family, and John found that he was glad to have them accompanying him on his journey. He looked down to Santiago on the ground. The little man cycled his face through the range of emotions and the expression settled on shock, his eyes bulging and unibrow wiggling in astonishment. Then John laughed. And the laughter caught on with Joad and Santiago. Alf the Sacred Burro brayed mirthful donkey laughter. And all was right between them. They laughed until all of their tensions dissipated. And as the contagious laughter was winding down, a sound boomed out from behind them that terminated the laughter once and for all.

“Bwaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha,” blurted Two-Dogs-Fucking, his joviality hitting them like a splash of cold water and promptly ending the laughter.

And from the edge of a distant cliff, Three Tooth looked on with a tear dribbling down his dusty cheek.

El Camino de la Muerte twisted and turned and the dirty old road revealed more bloodwood trees decorated with human piñatas. Mostly the cadavers did not hold cards in their hands, mostly. But when they did, Santiago no longer needed to knock them free with his walking stick. Instead, Joad easily reached the cards and extracted them from the corpses’ hands. And John collected the cards until he had a complete deck.

As they wound their way along the meandering trail, Two-Dogs-Fucking intermittently stopped and rested in the shade of the bloodwood trees. He napped and drooled and unconsciously groped at his dick. When done with his catnaps, he would step off of the trail and cut across the desert to intercept the others again on the path. And after several hours without Two-Dogs-Fucking, the men happened upon him snoozing on the ground in the shadow of a bloodwood tree, his bath towel hanging as a circus tent on a fat and short center pole. A lynched man swayed gently in the breeze above him.

John sat with his back to the tree, looking up at the swinging corpse. Up ahead on the trail, the sharp yips of a dirt-rat colony called out to Santiago. Although the Chellovecks gave them ample provisions, Santiago felt the need to slaughter rodents. He needed it not for food but for his nerves. He left John and Joad and Two-Dogs-Fucking at the bloodwood tree and commenced a barbarous dirt-rat massacre.

“Who are these men?” asked John to no one in particular. He looked up at the hanging man. “What have they done to deserve this?”

Joad approached and stood face to face with the dead man, waving away a small swarm of munkle flies and studying the man’s features. “Who do you think they are?” he asked.

“I don’t have a clue,” said John. “I’m only just beginning to learn who I am, or what I am. How am I supposed to know anything about these men?”

“I think they are like you,” said Joad, and he moved away from the corpse. He looked down on John from high and said, “I think that they, too, were following the trail. I think that they were seekers who failed to find what they were looking for.”

“So they were trying to reach Android Lovethorn?” asked John. “They were trying to get back home?”

“I don’t think so,” said Joad. “They were following their own paths. The trail leads not only to Android Lovethorn. The trail flows everywhere, to the left, to the right, forward, backward, and up and down. Its purpose is different for each man who has to travel it. Its direction depends on the traveler.”

“So this journey is specific to me?” asked John. He stood and walked out of the shade of the bloodwood tree, looking up at the overcast sky. And the trail of clouds above El Camino de la Muerte slowed to a creeping pace, as if waiting for John to start walking the road again. “The red brick road flows in a direction toward my ends? Is that what you’re saying?”

“What do you think?” asked Joad, swatting at and smashing a munkle fly that was biting his arm, drinking his thick blood. He looked at the smashed bloody mash of munkle fly mess and grimaced, then wiped his hand on a high limb of the tree.

“I think I agree.”

John sat down at the tree again and pondered his journey. And much of what Joad said made sense. It did feel as if there was a deeper purpose to walking the road than just getting back home. It felt to John as if he were getting to know himself better than he ever had before, even though he could not remember his life prior to the red brick road. And he realized that he liked himself. A feeling settled in his head, as if the meaning of his travels were starting to gel, as if he were near to grasping a purpose for it all. He closed his eyes and ruminated on the matter. On the backs of his eyelids, the ten thousand things flashed as a galaxy of twinkling stars and they swirled and rearranged into constellations of snakes and bears, donkeys and long-eared dogs. A sparkling picture show danced before him in the blackness. And just as it felt like it was all coming together…

“…Halloooooo,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “I see you are lacking in motivation. A good nap will do you just fine.”

And the Melungeon’s voice snapped John out of his reverie and set him on edge. But John did not open his eyes, nor did he acknowledge Two-Dogs-Fucking. John sat with his back against the tree, eyes closed, and tried to picture the constellations on the backdrop of his eyelids. But the visions vanished and refused to return. His heart beat rapidly, fueled by his irritation. And the recharge of a midday siesta evaded him. Once he knew for sure that Two-Dogs-Fucking had risen and resumed walking, John stood and stretched. The sun was sinking, its rays diffused by the ash clouds above and casting a blood red glow over the land. Settling down for the evening made no sense when there were still several hours of daylight left. So John grabbed Alf the Sacred Burro’s rope and led him away from the tree. Alf rubbed the side of his face against John’s hand and looked up at him with dewy eyes. John scratched the donkey’s head. Joad and Santiago once again followed John as he set out on the red brick road.

And that evening, when they settled on a campsite, Three Tooth and his men struggled into the camp. Joad stood at the edge of the piss perimeter, looking down at the sorry looking band of men who dragged themselves before him. Three Tooth, Crazy Talk, Heap-o-Buffaloes, and Throws-Like-Girl barely managed to stagger into the camp. The open, seeping sores on the scurves had crusted over but still bubbled with infection. Three Tooth dropped to his hands and knees and dragged himself to Joad’s feet, gazing upward at the towering giant.

“John said you would come,” said Joad. He picked up Three Tooth, dwarfing the large scurve, and carried him like a newborn to the fire. John sat beside Three Tooth and laid hands on him while Joad lugged the afflicted men to the fireside. The blazing river of flames and the emerald light of the star Wormwood cast a flickering green and orange glow over their camp as John tended to the men.

There was no sleep that night for John. His healing hands kept busy on Three Tooth and his men all night and into the next day. Nor did Joad enjoy any rest. Instead he stood sentry at the edge of the camp. The scurves’ seeping sores and infected abscesses dug in and fought against the healing, but John was stronger. And he drew out the sickness and feasted on it, turning it into his strength. The sick men moaned and John vented the foulness with great bleating farts and burps. John did not stop until Three Tooth, Crazy Talk, Heap-o-Buffaloes, and Throws-Like-Girl were cured. When the morning sun peeked over the horizon and burned the sky red, Three Tooth and his men all passed out from exhaustion, but not John. He switched from man to man, laying on his hands and soaking up the infections like a sponge. When John was satisfied that his job was done, Joad lifted the men, one by one, and carried them into the shade of a bloodwood tree to shield them from the burn of the desert sun.

Neither Santiago nor Two-Dogs-Fucking concerned themselves with tending to the sick. Two-Dogs-Fucking found level ground off of the trail, well outside of the protective piss perimeter, spread out under the night sky, and slept deeply the whole night through. Santiago fell asleep, face down on the ground beneath the bloodwood tree, dead to the world, and did not awaken even as Joad hefted the recuperating men and lay them on the ground all around Santiago.

When the laying on of hands finally concluded, all present slept in the shade of the bloodwood tree until darkness once again draped itself over the land. All slept, that is, but John, who sat with his back against the tree, eyes closed. He felt no need for sleep. Energy buzzed through him and he felt it in every part of his body. When he did open his eyes, he saw different objects wavering almost imperceptibly. Alf the Sacred Burro gave off a green nimbus and his body vibrated, resonating with the buzz of a small swarm of munkle flies. The leaves on the tree threw off an almost unnaturally bright shade of green. The bloodwood fruits, red and spotted with purple blotches, gently throbbed in time with John’s heart. Each and every aspect of John’s surroundings registered with him. Every smell, every sight, and every sound checked in and found a place to settle in his consciousness. Before he realized it, the two moons were rising in the sky and the trail of clouds changed color to a low burning red, and random flames flickered in the clouds until the trail in the sky ignited and burned as a river of fire above. And with the onset of the evening, Three Tooth began to stir. John was aware of this, too, although he kept his eyes closed.

Like sand slugs surfacing on the desert floor with the turn of night, Three Tooth, Crazy Talk, Heap-o-Buffaloes and Throws-Like-Girl all felt the pull of the moons and awoke. The two half-moons hung low in the sky and slowly drifted toward each other as if attempting to jettison their dark halves and join together in a single glowing orb. The men slowly stirred like cave-bears waking from a long hibernation.

Two-Dogs-Fucking stumbled into camp, his face cramped with disappointment. “I’m so glad that no lunkheads found me,” he said. “I accidentally fell asleep away from the camp and could have been ravished if I would have been discovered by another roving group of lunkies.” But his face showed no relief, instead looking sad and lonely.

And Santiago still slept, unaware that Crazy Talk had cuddled up next to him in his sleep. Even though he was waking, Crazy Talk stayed in spooning position, his arm slung over the sleeping Santiago. Two-toned braying and cruffulous coughing from Alf the Sacred Burro woke Santiago, who threw Crazy Talk’s arm from him. Santiago jumped up, spitting and hissing. “Gods damned Injun,” he spat. “Can’t a man go to sleep without being felt up?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” agreed Two-Dogs-Fucking, unconvincingly.

Heap-o-Buffaloes chuckled to himself but said nothing.

“Jump back and kiss myself,” said Crazy Talk, licking at the palms of his hands and slapping them to his head, flattening his fine, blond hair. “Thatwise I am the zombie woof. And I gots me a zombie toof.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” said Santiago as he leapt toward Crazy Talk, murder in his eyes. The negative space between Santiago’s outstretched hands formed into a perfect semi-circle to fit around Crazy Talk’s neck. But before Santiago throttled his throat, Crazy Talk held out a wineskin heavy with chicha. Santiago’s hands closed around the skin and his face softened. His threatening demeanor immediately changed, facial expressions shifting randomly and settling on pleasantly surprised. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“It is the spit of the gods,” said Crazy Talk. “Thatwise I brought it just for you.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, you crazy son of a niksik.” Santiago put one arm around Crazy Talk’s shoulders and tilted the wineskin back, draining a gut-full of chicha down his throat. Halfway down his esophagus the chicha turned against him and struggled to spew back out of his mouth. Fighting the urge to puke, Santiago coughed and gagged and forced the stinking spit-brew down, holding it there. He passed the wineskin back to Crazy Talk and dropped to his knees in the sand, battling the chicha revolt in his stomach. Alf the Sacred Burro took Santiago’s fits as a reminder that he hadn’t coughed up anything of substance in hours. The donkey joined in the coughing and gagging and spat up a bezoar coated in donkey slime and half-digested grickle grass. Throws-Like-Girl retrieved the bezoar and studied it, ignoring Santiago and Crazy Talk. Both Santiago and Alf concluded their coughing fits at the same time. Then, Santiago’s body accepted the putrid liquid and the accompanying all-over warmth. And he craved yet another snort of chicha but had to wait until it had passed around through all of the men.

Joad accepted the skin and tilted it back, draining most of the liquid down his throat. “Mmmm,” he grunted, suffering no ill effects, and nodded his head pleasantly at the others.

John opened his eyes and rose from the ground. He took the wineskin from Joad and drained the last of the drink. Everyone else had already suckled at the chicha teat and suffered the initial shock. They watched as John choked it down and refused to let it back out. Joad stood over John, ready to help him if necessary, and watched. Munkle flies alighted on Joad’s face and forehead. Like Alf the Sacred Burro, he ignored the flies, even as one slowly crawled across his eyeball. Joad focused on John, concerned about his wellbeing. Only when John’s stomach contractions ceased and his body accepted the drink, did Joad move and wave away the flies.

And Three Tooth was at John’s side, hand on arm, leading John away from the tree, away from the road. “Come now,” said Three Tooth. “Come to our kiva and palaver with us.”

“But I cannot leave the path,” said John. “If I do, I’m lost. All is lost. I have to stay with the trail.”

“The trail leads in many directions,” said Three Tooth, and the tear dribbling down his cheek lent a sweetness to his gentle, gummy smile. He waved a hand before them and John saw that the trail did indeed lead in the way that Three Tooth was urging him. And the river of fire in the night sky tracked along with the trail.