The Delivery

It was a hot day indeed for Arthur Fennec. Too hot for his liking, yet it was a heat he was well acquainted with. Dry, and without a lick of wind. The Chief had been gracious enough to provide with him an extra water skin for the journey, but he had politely declined. The village needed it more than he did, after all. Behind him, the rattling of his wooden wagon was all he had to fill the deafening silence of the road. Although he had no lack of companions in the village, it was well known that Arthur Fennec turned his nose up at the thought of assistance, though many had offered. Too proud to accept help, some would say. Sucking up to the Chief, others would say. It was neither of those, so the rumors brought a half-smirk to his lips. He was determined to make his rounds alone and in silence, save for the wheels. He had hoped to one day find a replacement for the stiff plastic wheels that scraped across the asphalt. Once, he tried binding some old leather around the tire, but it never took. Maybe it’s for the better, Arthur thought. I might go mad if I had to make these journeys in complete silence. He was a dreadful singer, but a decent whistler. The whistling made his lips dry, though, and they hurt when they cracked.

This was the sixth journey he had undertaken this year, and the thirteenth in total. Wagon laden with loot, he would often disappear from the village to seek some queer associates that he would barter with. Two or three days later, he would arrive in a magnificently painted horse-cart pulled by two onyx horses. Much to the village’s delight, it was usually overflowing with ripe fruit, choice meats and leafy vegetables, crisp baked goods, delicately wrapped cheese, a few bottles of vintage spirits and sometimes even tins of candy for the children. Arthur was an important man, and his journeys kept the village comfortably fed. Not much of a village, though. Blasted to hell. We have crumbling stone trees and ashen backyards. It did have a certain comfort, though. Nobody came or went, save for him. There are maybe two dozen families, and another dozen just waiting to die. He twisted his mouth and stopped walking for a moment. The journeys were wholly unpleasant, and it irked him that his boons fed the useless. That’s work for the Chief, though. I just get the stuff. He resumed his pacing, a stiff, brisk gait with his right arm trailing behind him. There was no comfortable way to pull that wagon, so he went with what was fastest.

It had been perhaps another hour or two down the road, and Arthur was growing bored. Maybe next time I should let Clive come, he thought. Clive had been one of his closest friends; they had known each other long before the time of the village. He was fortunate enough to have survived the sky-fire with his daughter, but his wife had perished trying to save their cat. I suppose it would be fine to take him. As long as I hold the wagon and do the talking, it should be fine. Their children had been good friends, and the sight of boisterous play brought smiles to the crestfallen village. However, Clive’s friendship had been significantly jarred a year ago and they seldom spoke nowadays. No, maybe not. I’ve no lack of admirers though, I’m sure anyone would be willing to come. It was a small village, and he could remember nearly everyone by name. There’s Clive, of course. Tyler and Barrick, Alexei and Samantha, Cleese, Marty, Brandon, Katherine, Margaret, Henry, Willy and the boys, the loud ones… Grant and… Finley! He wasn’t proud of much, but he had a sharp eye and a keen awareness that he doubted many others could match. Ferguson and Jacob, the old man in the tent, m-something. The other urchins that skulk around him, Jessie and Franky and-

The cart thumped.

He stopped, frowning. He walked over to the cart and looked at the road for a stone or some other object that must have hit the wheel. A bit of sand there, a bit of desert there, and innumerable cracks and lines in the road from weather and neglect. No stone. Maybe the screws on the undercarriage are getting loose. He stood very still, the silence eerie on the road. Nothing. He peeked under the tight red tarp bound to the wagon to check his cargo. Marked boxes, branded and unsinged, cramped each other as if to fight for room. “There’s nothing wrong.”, he spoke out loud, voice crackling from disuse. He waited a few more seconds, then picked up the handle and continued his unpleasant task. Arthur then became astutely aware of the trinket around his neck, his thoughts dwelling on it as he walked. It had been his daughter’s, and she had given it to him when she was still alive. Well, it wasn’t truly hers. Isabel had found it shortly after the sky-fire, a tarnished silver thing fused shut from the heat. It never left his person. Arthur thought about the day she found it. A week after the sky-fire, they decided it was time to come out. Creeping out of their basement, they found their neighborhood had turned into a cemetery of ash and cinders. Houses were blasted to rubble and rained their contents onto the streets, grass and trees were scorched to black dust and belched their smoke into the air, and the heat had turned those on the streets into sculptures of dust posed in their horrific final moments. Isabel had clutched him at these sights, and even as they fled that place her wide eyes stayed locked to the ground. One particular dwelling had received the brunt of one blast; it resembled cooking grease from beneath a stove top. With her gaze creeping over the floor, she wordlessly pointed to a gleam of silver twinkling beneath grey soot. Arthur knelt to pick it up, never letting go of her hand. Heart-shaped and well worn, he suspected it to be an heirloom that outlived its family, but he said nothing. Isabel took a liking to it, and spent many hours with Penelope trying to open it. And now you’re gone. I wish you could have seen what was inside. Darker thoughts came then, the day it had passed to him. The morning of, his curiosity had gotten the better of him and he asked to have it for the day. Perhaps Clive could open it with his chef’s tools, or Margaret with her curling iron. They went for a walk together, as she was nine and would soon prefer the company of her friends over her father. And then… There had been at least twenty men that day, cloaked and masked. Odd choices for such heat. And then… He had been helpless as two of them grabbed her and forced a sack over her head. He had lowered his gaze for much of it, but when he looked back up, she was no longer moving.

Shaking and nauseous, he gulped some of the water from his skin. He felt sick, but he wearily kept up his pace and tried to concentrate on the rattling wagon. Upon returning to the village, his tear-stricken face and absent child gathered a crowd. “Stay away from the roads!”, he had told them all. “There are vagrants, monsters, cloaked beasts! They did nothing to me, but forced my girl away from me. My Isabel…” And so, the locket is mine, he thought bitterly. He never cared to try opening it. He felt it hammering against his windpipe with each step, and each bang was as heavy as an anvil. “Keep them away from the roads, that’s where they dwell!”. Yet it was no good. Over a dozen children had gone missing over the years, he was told. They must have strayed too far while playing, or chasing a dog, or looking for food. Everyone was always looking for food.

The sand on the road was starting to thin and the road’s condition was beginning to improve. Arthur was almost there. He cleared his throat out loud. I need to clear my head, too. Maybe a memory game can help. He tried to reconstruct the village in his head. His dwelling was next to Clive’s, with Tyler and his Uncle Barrick next to him. The rest of the houses in that court were too ruined to use, so the rest of the housing started down the street or in large tents that cropped up on the dust. Willy and his rowdy kids live in the ashy blue bungalow near the corner, and then across from them is Marty. He continued this game, drawing a route around the village to connect all the houses. He huffed when he got to m-something and his scampering urchins, laughed when he got to Cleese with his ridiculous campfires and furrowed his brow at the house with the purple door. I don’t know that one, he suddenly realized, slightly embarrassed. I was certain I could name all of them. He was sure he knew it at some point. He was likely just addled by grief and heat.

He could see them! His associates were standing in a large huddle, one of them resting his hand on a horse as dark as midnight. Poor beasts. I hope they gave them a drink beforehand. He was exhausted, legs aching and arm burning, and the prospect of a nice sleep on the way back was making him eager to get this business done. Though as he drew closer and saw the horse-cart, anger surged through him. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Unbelievable! I’d like to hear what they have to say for this. Grinding his teeth, he briskly walked up to them and stood a good ten meters away from them. Not once had he ever seen them with weapons, but if things went sour, he wanted a head start on the group.

“HO, FRIEND ARTHUR!”, the man holding the reins had a booming voice that cut through the tense silence. “I TRUST YOU BROUGHT WHAT WAS ASKED?”. I have, but you’re not like to get it now. “I brought what was agreed upon, yes. Have you?”. A few of the men turned to look at the horse-cart, and looked down sheepishly. It was indeed a sorry cart. A few sacks of wilted vegetables, some potatoes, a sealed barrel of something. “Lift the blanket.”, he barked out to a man near the back of the cart. He nodded and hastily unwound the blanket, causing Arthur to sag in disgust. This was a wasted effort. Sealed bags of meat peeked out from beneath the blanket, enough to feed about ten people. “IT HAS BEEN A BAD YEAR FOR US, FRIEND. YOUR TRADE IS NEEDED MORE THAN EVER.” His entire body went numb as it decided to walk forward with the wagon. He handed off the wagon to the amiable fellow with the reins and was given the horses in return. He clambered into the coachman’s seat and was about to give the beasts a hi-yah when the man opened the wagon.

The man wasted no time. He ripped the tarp off and stood back as two of his cloaked companions started flinging the empty boxes asunder. They clattered weightlessly to the sand, his heart thumping faster and stomach dropping lower with each one. The cloaked men lifted the bound child out of the bottom of the wagon, wide eyes streaming with tears as she looked around wordlessly for help. Arthur felt sickened by the low price she had been bought for while whipping his horses into motion. He never would have let them take Isabel if it was for this little. Ah, he remembered. The Anderson’s live at the purple door.