Written By Ged Maybury 

Illustrations by Miso

"… it’s like you’re watching yourself: - from a little way off…"

THREE

There
had to be
water somewhere!
Cory had been walking for hours through those
damned hills, up and down, left and right, as the sun steadily rose over his back. He was sweating. His skin had become slippery under his clothes. The new leather was bleeding, leaking out its colourings into his sweat and then into his skin. And worst of all; the sword and scabbard had been swinging relentlessly against his left leg, which now felt hammered and bruised.

He had tried it in other positions but none were any better. The thing was simply too long. If he put it further back it caught on his heels. Forward and it bounced wildly off his leg with every step. And it could not go on the right, for the buckle had been made only for the left, facilitating a cross-draw, for he was right-handed.

The damned thing was becoming unbearable!

He stopped, unbuckled it, and hefted it in his hands. Stupid thing! Why had he been so keen on it anyway? He had never used a sword before. Wanted to, sure, but never had. What if he actually met someone who could use a sword; like really use one? He’d be salami in seconds!

He drew the sword and laid the scabbard aside. He swung it experimentally through the air. Nice. And again. Hmm! He swept it faster and was rewarded by a faint noise, a soft singing hum. Again he swung, hard! The sword flashed through the air. The sword hummed. The sword hit the grass with a thud that went jarring up his arm. He tugged it out, glanced around, embarrassed.

He was alone.

He plodded on down the valley, swiping lazily at the grass with the sword. His thirst was beginning to drive him crazy. There had to be water somewhere, but he had seen no streams in any of the endless little valleys he had already passed through. Did he have to dig for it? But where? He stopped. If there was water anywhere, he figured, it would be in the lowest point of this very hollow, down there where the grass was particularly lush.

Leaving the path he descended and set to with the sword, slicing open the lush turf and digging deep into the sandy soil below. The soil was moist, but there was no drinkable water. He dug deeper, pushing the sword straight down, then working it like a saw in a small circle. Then he knelt and pulled up the loosened soil with his hands. It was promisingly damp. But after twenty hot exhausting minutes his hole was a full arm’s-length deep and there was still no water. Short of sucking on wet dirt he was going to remain thirsty.

With an angry sigh he stood, wiped the gritty sword on the grass, and went to re-sheath it. But the scabbard was somewhere back up the hill, by the path where he had left it. Muttering angrily he climbed out of the hollow.

The scabbard was not to be seen.

He looked back along the path, and ahead. No sign, and even as he watched the path seemed to be becoming less distinct, as if the grass had grown dramatically during the last half hour. "Damn, damn, DAMN!" he shouted into the silence.

He began walking back, figuring he was a little way ahead of where he had been earlier. But within twenty paces he was walking across featureless grass. He stopped, trying to quell the panic that wanted to rise within.

"Think, Cory, think!" he spoke to himself, casting about frantically for any sign of the trail. It had to be there! He had not left the hollow!

Or had he?

He looked down. Relief. There was the hole he had dug; the reddish earth distinct against the green. But all else was confusion. Every hillock looked the same. Every minor pass lead to another little valley just like the one he was in. He needed a landmark. – Anything!

"Right!" he cried suddenly, and began hacking at the grass at his feet.

Soon he had cut a short shallow trench; a rough figure ‘1’. Then he took twenty strides counter-clockwise, on the level, and cut a rough ‘2’. Down ten, and cut a ‘3’.

And so he quartered the ground, slowly mapping out the whole valley with some twenty markers. The day grew hotter, and the sun seemed to have stopped at the top of the sky. He worked with a methodical madness, an obsessive determination to find his missing possession. And he did find it, not a dozen steps from his first marker.

Hot, thirsty and frustrated he hooked it to his belt and thrust the gritty sword home. His sword-hand ached, and he desperately needed a drink. He had to go on, but he had lost the Path. Did it have something to do with the fact that he had stopped, turned aside, and attempted to go back? Would it reappear the moment he resumed the Journey?

Aligning himself carefully with his markers, and knowing where he stood was where he had stepped aside so many hours ago, he began again across the slope towards the next smooth notch in the landscape. The cursed valley fell behind. He glanced back, once. The turf markers had already grown over. The valley was once again like every other. He looked ahead. There was still no trail. He ran, almost whimpering aloud, into the next valley and across it and up to the highest point he could see.

He stopped there, panting, and gazed about under an eye-shielding hand. Was that it? That faint line across the next valley? Down he ran, cursing the whole crazy place.

Relief! It was the Path!

#

He turned west, guided by the low sun, and set his feet into the smooth hip-wide rut. Something seemed to urge him to hurry; - that time had been wasted. The trail dipped, curved, climbed, and led him into yet another valley. Ahead were more hills, more little valleys, more slopes and hollows and knolls. Grassy knolls. Everywhere.

He hurried now. Panting. Frightened. Thirsty. So so thirsty!

And then he stopped abruptly. Someone had been there before him. Recently too, by the look of things. In about twenty places, in a distinct pattern, someone had cut up the turf to reveal the red sandy dirt below. The cut patches almost seemed to resemble numbers, 5, 8 13, 6, 4, 18 … Strange? Why on Earth had they done that? It made no sense. No sense at all. He hurried on again, wondering why anyone would have done such a thing. But it soon went from his mind. He could think of only one thing.

"God, I’m thirsty!" he spoke aloud, "I really need a drink!"

In the very next valley he came to the lemonade stall.

#

"Greetings, traveller!" cried the grey-haired man behind the stall, barely glancing up from his activity. He seemed to be packing up.

Cory picked up his pace, calling out cheerfully, "Man I’m glad to see you!"

"I’m sure," answered the man, "Too bad you’re not earlier."

"Why?" puffed Cory, reaching the stall.

"I could’ve given you a drink," said the man, still packing up.

"What! Don’t tell me you’re out!"

"Okay, I won’t."

"You must have something!"

"Nope. Everyone gone through today, hours ago. Usually I gone by now but today I hang on a bit. Dunno why. Now I know." He loaded the last of his big battered metal bottles and bowls onto his wheelbarrow, then turned and heaved a wide-topped copper tank out of its hole in the top of his stall.

"Hey. Whoa. Whoa. Don’t chuck it out!"

"It just the ice-water," said the man, tipping it onto the dry grass at his feet.

"STOP!" Cory grabbed the copper rim and forced it back up, saving the final slops. Desperately he lifted it to his face and drank. The water was warm, tasted metallic, and was full of grit. He spat it out, threw the tank aside, and fell to his knees on the wet patch of grass, trying to scoop up the last of the puddle before it sank away. He came up spitting bits of grass.

The old man stood quietly, watching.

Cory stood, angry and desperate. "Please," he whispered, "I’ll give you anything for a drink."

"Most all of you do." said the man knowingly.

"What do you mean?"

"First day: Thirst Day. By time youse all get here, youse big thirsty. Usually sick to death of your Second Choosing too. So, I trade." He waved a hand towards his wheelbarrow. Cory noticed that, besides the bottles and bowls, there were some odd things there as well, among them a telescope, a watering can, and a brand new Monopoly set, still in its plastic wrapper.

"You trade?"

"Yep." The old man carefully stowed the copper tank under his stall, up-side-down, then started rummaging under the stuff on the wheelbarrow. He pulled out a small water bottle. "Want a drink?"

Cory placed a protective hand over his sword handle, "Ah.., ah.., I could push your barrow," he offered hastily, " - Sir."

"Mighty kind of you, thanks." The man passed him the bottle as if he had been planning to anyway and began walking towards the sunset. Cory hastily drained the bottle, recapped it and laid it in the barrow, then seized the handles. With his shin guards chaffing and his sword swinging against the back of his leg he began following the Lemonade Man out of the hills, feeling
suddenly tired
and worn.