The sun beat down mercilessly on Benicio’s head. The heat cut through his hair like scissors, boring deeply into his scalp and turning his dark green tunic into a broiling oven that sapped the strength from his bones. Worse, the dark brown stones of the surrounding canyon soaked in the sun and blasted it back up at him. He could feel it through the wooden soles of his boots. Even with his head down he could feel the heat turning his face bright red.
The air swam with the all consuming rays from on high, giving the world a surreal quality that brought time to a crawl. He’d fled Cezanne as the morning tides came in. Now the sun was directly overhead and it felt like it had been there for the last month.
A voice inside Benicio told him this was an omen. He’d watched Marcello die when the raiders burst from their boat, swarming over the docks and storming into Cezanne. Now his own time was coming. The King of Dreams had parted the veil and he was seeing into Eternity. If the slowly oozing wound where his right arm had been didn’t kill him soon, the desert would.
After all, where else was there to go? The only thing back the way he’d come was Cezanne and he didn’t dare go back to face the bandits again. There was little but rock and desert between his home town and the Fortress Antigone on the border with the Shamsaraj. It was eight miles as the crow flies. Longer through the canyons on foot. It was possible to cross the desert directly if you had a compass and enough water prepared but Benicio had neither.
Weary and confused, he came to a stop under the shadow of a bend in the canyon. A small pile of scree offered a comfortable enough seat for him to wait for the end. He collapsed there and looked at what used to be his right hand. Now it was just a stump, sloppily tied off with a dirty scarf, occasionally dripping dull red blood on the dirty ground. He grabbed one end of the cloth with his teeth and yanked it tighter with his remaining hand.
He wasn’t sure why. It just seemed like the thing to do.
Half a skin of water still hung from his hip, a ration meant to last him the whole morning on the docks. Out here it meant very little. Benicio was always shocked, when he left Cezanne, how quickly the land northeast of the river mouth turned to desert. Almost as quickly as it could claim a life.
For a moment visions of the Adriatic swam before his eyes. An endless expanse of water to slake his burning thirst, except none of it fit to drink.
Another omen.
Benicio’s thoughts were growing more and more scattered and he knew that wasn’t good. He just didn’t know what to do about it. Finally he bit into the cork that sealed his water skin, pulled it out and spat it to one side. Then he tipped back the container, sucked the water down until it was gone and cast it aside with a feeble motion.
For a time all around him was still. Then a distant, breathy voice drifted down the stone path to him.
“Ho there, my suffering friend. What brings you out here to my place of torment? Have you been condemned by Iram as well?”
In his fevered state Benicio wasn’t sure what he heard was real. Iram was the closest city on the Shamsaraj side of the border and he’d heard its name often enough but there was no way he could have traveled anywhere near it under his own power. Not even if he was healthy.
“Who?” He asked the canyon. But the canyon had no answer for him. Convinced he was hearing things Benicio forced himself to his feet once more, this time leaning against the rock wall for support.
“There’s not much breath in you, my friend.” The voice made itself known over the faint ringing in his ears. Perhaps it was louder than he’d thought. “But I cannot say that I am much better. Come this way. If two doomed men must pass our last hours in this forsaken place let us at least have one another’s company.”
“Where are you?”
“Walk forward and I will lead you. Which side of the canyon are you on?”
“The left.” Benicio groped his way forward, pulling with his good arm as much as walking with his feet.
“You will need to cross to the other side.”
Benicio glanced down at the stump of his arm. “I can’t reach you that way.”
“If you don’t you’re liable to miss the turn in your state.”
“I won’t miss it.”
But he almost did. He walked no more than the length of a short street along the docks but every step was a battle. His heart stuttered. His arm throbbed. When he stepped out from under the overhang the sun felt like fire on his back. Finally he arrived in a slightly wider part of the canyon.
A ragged, twiggy tree lay at the bottom of the canyon surrounded by dirt, rocks and scree. The collapsed canyonside around it bore mute testimony to what happened there. The arm, shoulders and head of a Shamsa man poked out from under the rubble, buried by stone and wood but still somehow alive. He was so caked in dirt and filth that Benicio could tell little about him other than that he had a beard. The remains of a turban were tangled in some branches near his head. “Hello, friend.” He moved one arm in a crude imitation of hospitable welcome. “I, Yavid of the Gale, welcome you to our final rest. Avail yourself of the full mercies of our most gracious hosts, the Earth, from which man is made, and the Sky, to which I hope to return.”
Benicio dropped himself onto the ground without grace or comfort. The stones nearby trembled slightly at his impact. “I’m Benicio Blowhard and I’m not staying here.”
Yavid gave a coughing laugh. “No? It is miles from here to the closest city of man and further to Iram.”
“What else is there to do?”
The stranger made a dismissive motion. “You are in no shape to walk, friend Blowhard, and you would not make the trip if you could.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you are here with me.”
“You don’t know why that is.”
For the first time Yavid lifted his head, levered his weight against the tree and rocks around him, and looked Benicio in the eye. “You are wrong. I do know.”
Benicio stared back, unimpressed. The Shamsa’s face was every bit as dusty as the rest of him and his eyes swam in their sockets, unable to focus. “Then tell me.”
“You. Ran.” The boy recoiled, shocked at the scorn in the stranger’s voice. “You showed the world your cowardice and ran in fear. Your fear was justified but running was not. You made living your goal and it brought you here, to die with me. How pitiable.”
Benicio swayed, dizzy, and nearly tumbled down into a heap. “How- How did you know?”
Yavid slowly slumped back down into the position he’d been in when they met. “Because when two beings seek the same goal then it is only natural that their paths will cross.”
“Oh.” For a long moment he just stared at the creature buried in the rubble and, just like Yavid, he felt profound pity. “Why?”
Yavid started. Clearly he’d thought their conversation was done. “Why what?”
“Why die? You.” Benicio gestured with his stump, caught himself and did it with his hand. “Sound fine.”
“I cannot dig myself out and the earth saps my strength. Soon I will be nothing but dust on the wind.”
“Oh. Doesn’t look that heavy.”
“Well maybe you could help me if you had both your arms.”
“True.” Benicio giggled. It turned into coughing as he struggled for each breath.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish dying alone on anyone but I haven’t been very comforting to you have I?” Yavid laughed weakly along with him. “I’ve been here for days, dreading it. I suppose I’ll be alone again, soon enough.”
Benicio got his breathing under control but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. The poor man caught in the rocks seemed healthy enough and it was a shame he should die alone. It seemed like a good idea to set that right so he leaned forward, almost pitching face first into the dirt, and sketched a glyph in the dirt. First was the arch of the crown. Then the long, central pillar that extended from it. Finally, three gently waving lines that crossed the center line, rich with portent.
“What are you doing?” Yavid asked.
“Dreams.” Benicio pointed down with his good hand. “The realm of visions, hopes, potential and imagination. It lies to the south of Eternity. We are closest to it during summer. Or, I guess, I’m closest to it now.”
The Shamsa man snorted. “I know what the symbol is. Why are you drawing it?”
“Does no one in Iram have the gift of the blowhard?”
“Of course they do. But -” Yavid’s eyes widened. “Wait. Your dying breath?”
Benicio nodded. “If the earth drains you I’ll send it away. Then neither of us will face Eternity alone.”
He breathed deep and felt his dying breath stir within him. Perhaps the King of Dreams called out to it. Perhaps no. He’d often heard Heralds of the Kings speak of how the four monarchs who guarded the Gates of Eternity were not a thing to fear. It always struck him as silly. Of course death was scary. But in that moment he saw that death was just the opposite. It hardly mattered at all. Eternity was calling for him and before he departed to it he might as well do whatever last good thing he could set his hand to. So Benicio Blowhard sucked in one last lungful of air, held it for just a moment then let it escape his lungs.
The most powerful wind he had ever blown swept through the canyon. It smashed the tree to kindling. It blew away the scree and stones. It blasted the dirt and grime into a rolling cloud of filth and it lifted a wild-eyed Yavid from the ground into the air. As Benicio’s death rattle sounded in his ears he took great pride in using his gift one last time. Then the scene faded from view.
For a moment he caught a glimpse of something rising from beyond the dust and the debris. The terraces of a gleaming castle, winding eternally upwards into the heavens, overflowing with joy and peace to such an extent that the emotions became waves and the waves flowed down the hillside into a river and on the banks of the river Benicio Blowhard stood, looking about for a place to cross. The banks on his side of the river were covered with grass and blooming clover and all was quiet and idyllic. The far side was shrouded in mists. Yet somehow he knew that was where he really wanted to be.
There was no bridge in sight and the city was massive so going all the way around it to find a bridge might take days. Benicio scrambled down to the riverbank and reached down to touch the water. He found he had no hand to touch it with. Confused, Benicio held up the stump of his arm and stared at it, finding the injury out of keeping with the place he was in.
“It will heal if you cross the river.”
Benicio spun to see a man of green watching him from a little further down the river. At least, it looked like a man. In truth it was a towering figure of light that shone with the warmth and potential of summer, its green appearance less a color and more the power of growth and fulfillment made manifest. “Who are you?”
“I suppose you call me the King of Dreams, and since my name would mean nothing to you that will have to do.”
“How do I get across?”
The figure’s attention drifted off to one side for a moment, as if considering something, then returned to him. “I can show you the way, if you’d like.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it will hurt more.” The figured turned and gestured for Benicio to follow him up the bank of the river. When he did so he found himself looking down on a canyon in the desert outside Cezanne. The grassy ground beneath his feet gave way to the skies over Nerona as abruptly as a well kept garden gave way to the paved walkways that run through it.
Dust and debris still filled the air over the canyon but Benicio found he could see through it well enough. Hovering over the canyon, now clean of all dust and grime, Yavid was revealed not as a Shamsa man but a green skinned creature with six arms. He had no lower body but was born aloft on a pillar of roaring air.
Most disconcerting of all, Benicio saw his own body lying there. He turned away and stared at the river again. “What will hurt?”
“Going back.”
Benicio spun on the figure, which seemed to be shrinking steadily down to a human size, and snapped, “No! Why go back? I just breathed my dying breath!”
For all the power radiating off the figure, for all the grim sense of purpose it projected, when it’s shoulders slumped and it sat down on the grassy bank Benicio got the feeling it was laughing at him. The King of Dreams gestured for him to sit as well and, confused, he did so. “It never ceases to amaze me how many people face death and beg, bargain or demand to be sent back. Yet when I find someone who isn’t actually dead and shoo them off they’re almost all ready to be done with living and cross the river.”
Benicio put his head in his hand. “I don’t understand it. I was just a docking, bringing in the ships a few hours ago. Then Master Marcello died and I ran away and didn’t do anything to help anyone and when I tried to do something I wound up here and why am I even here if I’m not allowed to stay? Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“I do.” For a split second, out of the corner of his eye, Benicio saw the impossible presence of the King of Dreams collapse into a man. Old, a little ragged and quite amused watching a moment of childish angst. Then the vision was gone and he was a figure of light again. “Eventually everyone reckons with Eternity, Benicio. You’re not the first to do so and be sent back. You certainly won’t be the last. Who knows? You may even have to send others back yourself. No one who walks the worlds as a King at the Corner is qualified to do so if they haven’t died at least once.”
“I don’t want to be a king. I couldn’t even blow the ships in properly.”
“Wise words, Benicio Blowhard.” The King of Dreams slapped Benicio on the back and dragged him to his feet. “But you have set your course to something worthwhile. Keep your flag pointed straight towards it and I’m sure you’ll do well enough. Now let’s get you back. Your friend is working hard to save your life and we wouldn’t want his first steps on a worthy path to go unrewarded, would we?”
“No, but…” Benicio looked back towards the grass behind them. “Isn’t he back that way?”
“I’m the King of Dreams, Benicio. I send portents in visions but that doesn’t mean the vision is the thing.” He pointed down towards the river. “Look.”
Benecio looked down and saw his reflection in the river, only it was off. He bent down and reached out the stump of his right arm towards it and the reflection reached back with a healthy arm. Only it wasn’t his own arm. It was slim and green and looked like it belonged to someone else. When the reflection’s fingers touched the surface of the water he snapped awake.
Yavid was holding his head between two hands as another two wove through the air around them in a mysterious pattern. Benicio jerked back, instinctively pushing away with both hands. Still reeling with confusion, he saw that his right arm now looked like one of Yavid’s, a slim thing that looked like it had been carved from green marble. In fact, now that he could see all of the creature’s body he saw that Yavid was missing one of the three right arms he’d had…
When had he seen Yavid with all six arms before? He felt like he had but now he couldn’t remember when. Yet nothing about the creature’s green hue or texture of carved stone surprised him.
The creature drifted back until he was about five feet away then pressed the palms of his top two hands together and bowed to Benicio. “Benicio Blowhard. Forgive me for not stating who I am before. I am Yavid, a djinn of the Gales, born to war on behalf of the djinn lords of Iram, now your humble servant.”
Benicio got to his feet. It was as easy as falling over had been. A complete transformation from how he had felt just moments before. “Seeing how you just saved my life I don’t think there’s a whole lot more serving you need to do for me, Yavid.”
“You sound much more… coherent now, my friend.”
“Well, I feel a lot better, too.” Benicio began dusting himself off, marveling at his strange hand. Everything about it seemed normal except he felt every breath of wind and change in pressure as it moved about. “I’m in your debt, Yavid, and one day I hope to pay it back to you but for now I need to go back to Cezanne. Things there were badly awry when I left.”
The djinn drifted forward, his many hands dropping down to where the waist on a human would be. “Then I shall accompany you. Truly, the one who owes most to the other is I and if I may be of help to you then I must do so.”
Benicio opened his mouth to thank his new friend. Instead he said, “You should go back.”
Yavid stopped short. “What?”
“Go back to Iram, Yavid.” As he spoke the words a growing sense of certainty filled Benicio. He didn’t know why but he knew that was what the other had to do. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? We met because fear drove us to run to our deaths. That was the end of the path we chose and we met because we arrived there at the same time. If I go home I must overcome my fear. If you go with me what is there for you to overcome?”
Yavid ran his hand over his beard, pulling debris from it as he studied Benicio through narrowed eyes. It was hard to read them. Benicio knew little about the people of Shamsa, much less about the djinn that supposedly ruled the skies over their deserts, but it seemed to him Yavid was struggling with anger, embarrassment and yes, a little fear. “I still owe you much, my friend.”
Benicio held up his right hand. “You’ll repay that debt every time I use this. I only wish I had something of equal value to give you.”
“Then…” Yavid broke eye contact for a moment, gathering courage. “Then I will take your name. Having disgraced the Gales, allow me to return to my people as Yavid Blowhard and expunge the disgrace of my own cowardice.”
It occurred to Benicio that he really didn’t know much about djinn. What kinds of cowardice might lead one to a canyon in Nerona where he nearly died half buried in his enemy, the earth?
Still. Perhaps Benicio didn’t need to know. It wasn’t like the name Blowhard had a particular honor among men that needed defending. “Very well, Yavid. I hope when we meet again you’ll have proved worthy of the name.”
“If we meet again I trust you will find it so.”
Benicio considered that and then he smiled. “We met once because we followed the same path, didn’t we?” The djinn nodded. “Then make courage your flag and I’m sure we’ll cross paths again in due time.”
Yavid gave a thoughtful nod. “Until then, my friend. Until then.”
Nate Chen Publications 