by Robert E. Keller
The Wasting Disease rotted our metals into the sand. Only the thickest structures remained, shingled with rust, eaten through in many places. The sandstorms took away our will to expand and drove us into tight little communities.
Many of the old pumps still functioned beneath the ground where the metal-eating bacteria couldn’t reach, bringing water from the deep, and we didn’t thirst. We hungered though, and not just for food but for hope. Our belief in ourselves and our sense of destiny had worn away like our buildings. We’d lost our way, so we turned to myth and legend for guidance.
One such legend–the most famous among the people of my village–was that of the Sand Painter. I’d sought the mysterious figure all my life, that elusive artist who seemed to command the earth itself and left his designs all over the wastelands. I’d spent decades chasing him through dead forests, over fields of cracked mud, and through windswept valleys.
But as I stood atop a dune, my beard laced with windblown sand, I was no closer to catching him than I’d been at the start. I drank deeply from my flask, not caring that only a little water remained. My face was set in a scowl of frustration. I was getting old.
At my feet was a pattern of multi-colored sand grains so intricate that one could have gazed at it for hours. There was a time when I’d studied these designs in painstaking detail, seeking to unlock their mysteries in spite of the fact that the greatest scholars had failed to do so. But now I only gave it a quick glance before looking away. The sight of it only served to deepen my frustration.
I opened my map book and ran my finger over the screen, picking out the most likely sights where the Sand Painter would appear–a cluster of rocks and a dry river bed. I chewed some jerky and washed it down with the remaining water from my flask.
I was in Skullman territory now and would have to stay focused on my surroundings. The Skullmen would be an annoying distraction at best–and my reapers at worst. I clicked on my communication band–which like my map book was free of vulnerable metals, containing only tiny amounts of gold–and raised my wrist to my lips. “Rulo Cassain reporting. Entering Skullman territory and pursuing two promising leads. Heading for the Vice Rocks.”
“Some heavy Skullman activity has been reported there lately,” said Veeda, the base commander. She cleared her throat. “One seeker has been confirmed missing in that area. Clarson Santain. Keep watch for him. It’s been three days.”
“Three days?” I said. “He’s probably dead–or wishing he was. Too bad. Anyway, I think I’m wasting my time out here. Just a feeling. Another day, another failure.”
“Do you want to withdraw?” Veeda asked.
“No, I’ll stay on the search,” I said. “The years are slipping away from me, Veeda. A lot of gray in my beard. I don’t have time to sit around in the tavern getting drunk and whining about poor food, poor wages, and the blasted sand.”
I could picture her roll her eyes. “Same old speech again. I passed fifty a couple years ago, and you don’t hear me moaning about it. Should I run you a bath and get ready to rub your feet when you get back to base?”
“Negative. The sand’s ground so deep in my skin that water wouldn’t do a thing for me, and I lost any feeling in my feet years ago.”
“Just be careful, Rulo. I’m getting tired of losing seekers. Two have died in the last month alone. The task of chasing a legend shouldn’t be so dangerous. It’s a wonder people keep volunteering for this.”
“Danger or not, this is what I live for,” I said. “I’d do this full time if I got paid for it. Rulo out.” I kicked the sand design, scattering some of it into ruin. The wind would take care of the rest. Even the colors that coated the grains would fade away. These patterns only seemed to mock me and I was glad they were temporary.
Wiping sweat from my brow, I wandered through the dunes in the direction of the Vice Rocks. A skull rolled down a slope and came to rest at my feet–a warning that I was being watched. It was painted orange and bristling with rusty nails. I un-slung my wooden dart gun and aimed it toward the top of the dune. Nothing more came of it and I started walking, wondering if that was Clarson’s skull back there. I didn’t bother reporting the incident to Veeda.
A bit farther along, I found Clarson. His corpse was nailed to a post, left for the gritbeaks. One of the birds had already found him and was pecking away at his skull. The gritbeaks would clean him up nicely for the Skullmen, removing all the flesh from his bones.
I threw some liquid fire on Clarson from a flask and set him ablaze. It would burn him completely to ash, leaving the Skullmen with nothing. Liquid fire didn’t come cheap–as a single flask was worth a month’s average wages–but what else could I do? I was a Rust Belly–a desert man who lived and died by a staunch code of honor.
I saluted Clarson’s burning body and walked away, staggering like a drunk. I was weary in mind and soul–tired of chasing a ghost, tired of having no other purpose in life. But like the rest of my people, I had to believe we were destined for something beyond rotting away in the dunes. The Sand Painter might give us the answers we sought. The village wise men believed it, and a lot of good men and women believed it. Our faith was strong.
But I paused, the old questions nagging my mind. What exactly were we hoping to gain? What if the Sand Painter knew nothing of our destiny? I shoved those questions back into the depths of my mind, reminding myself that the wise men usually knew what they were talking about. I spoke into my wrist band. “Clarson’s dead. I burned him.”
“I’ll let his family know,” Veeda said.
A Skullman warrior stepped from behind a boulder and glared at me. He wore a dusty black robe, leather boots, and leather gloves. He carried a dark briefcase under one arm, and his face was shadowed by a pair of black sunglasses. The stink of law was all over him, a smug arrogance that spoke of being entitled to do whatever he wanted to a lower life form like me. His briefcase undoubtedly contained thick law books carefully detailing his right to murder me if he so chose and claim my skull as a decoration for his underground village.
“You had no right to burn the Rust Belly,” he said, smoothing back his greasy, orange-dyed hair. “We had already laid claim to him.”
I considered just shooting him, but that would only have brought a whole bunch of them after me. I shrugged. “He was from my village.”
“But you’ve broken Skullman law,” he said. He started to open his briefcase.
“I already know your laws,” I said. “I’m hunting the Sand Painter and I don’t have time to stand around and chat.”
“The Sand Painter is a law breaker,” the Skullman said. “He passes through our territories and doesn’t pay a toll. If we catch him, he’ll face trial and execution.”
My face burned hot with rage. I raised my dart gun. “And did Clarson pay the toll? Or did you kill him regardless?”
The Skullman’s eyes widened. “We don’t kill those who pay up–even though we have the right to do so. The Rust Belly had no money or goods to barter, and he shouldn’t have come here. We had no choice but to carry out the law, which stands taller than all else.”
“Your laws are unjust,” I said. “Clarson would never have willingly entered Skullman territory without goods to trade for his passage. He must have been robbed by bandits.”
“The law has no tolerance for human error or misfortune,” he said. “Nor does it know mercy or forgiveness. The law is above such concepts.”
“What’s your fee?” I muttered.
The Skullman nodded. “The toll is either your gun, or whatever liquid fire you might have remaining.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “The toll is too high.”
“I’ve increased the toll,” said the Skullman. “You cost us the Rust Belly’s bones. Now you must pay extra to bring things into balance.”
My finger twitched on the trigger, but I lowered the gun. I tossed the flask of liquid fire at his feet. Then an idea struck me. “I’ll give up the gun, too, if you can tell me where the Sand Painter will appear next.” It was a desperate gamble, and I wasn’t confident the Skullman would tell the truth even if he did know. But my weariness was getting the best of me, demanding I do something outside the norm.
The Skullman adjusted his sun glasses. “You wish to strike a bargain, then?” He opened his briefcase and produced a contract. “You must first sign this general contract, so that payment can be enforced under penalty of law.”
I read the contract and signed it. He put it back in his briefcase, ordered me to wait, and disappeared behind a boulder. I said nothing to Veeda and kept my wrist band off, certain she wouldn’t understand. I wasn’t sure if I understood. A gun like mine was something you bought once and owned for life. But I was getting old.
An hour later, the Skullman returned. “I’ve consulted with our village scouts and wise men. They’ve concluded there is no accurate way to predict where the Sand Painter will appear. Now, as authorized by the signed contract, hand over that gun.”
My hands shaking, I aimed the weapon at his chest. “I didn’t agree to that. I asked where he’d appear next, and you failed to give me an adequate answer. Not acceptable.”
He sneered. “Very well. We shall take it up in a court of law.” He patted his briefcase. “The contract states that I must provide a truthful answer. I did that.”
“I don’t give a jolly damn about your laws,” I said, stepping toward him. “I’ll shoot you right through your heart.”
He hesitated and gulped. “However, I could give you my own opinion on the matter, just to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. The Sand Painter appeared in the Vice Rocks a week ago. He likely won’t return there anytime soon as he passes through this region. That would leave the Red Dust River as a more likely place. In fact, we already sent warriors there to ambush and arrest him.”
I tossed the rifle and my dart belt to the Skullman. “You’ll never arrest him. He’ll always slip through your fingers–just like the desert sands.”
“And yours as well, Rust Belly,” he said, and walked away.
I stood in silence for a while, hardly able to believe what I’d just done. It would take months of careful saving for me to buy another rifle. I knew Veeda would give me a tongue lashing when I returned without my weapon, but there wasn’t much else she could do about it. We were legend hunters, a base of volunteers and not a real military group.
I checked my map book and altered my direction slightly. I was lucky to still have that, as it made navigation out here a breeze. The wind picked up, blasting my face with sand. I raised my hood and dropped a face mask with goggles into place. The storm came on so violently in moments I could see nothing, and I had to keep lifting my map book to my eyes to make sure I was walking in the right direction. For a moment, I considered giving up. It seemed like everything was against me.
Something seized my leg and I cried out. It dragged me to the ground, winding itself around my torso. I was in the grasp of a sandknot, a mass of long, thin tentacles and not much else. Its ropy strands of flesh were seeking to tie knots around me and squeeze me to death. I drew my stone knife and hacked at it, even as it constricted against me like steel bands.
As quickly as the sandstorm had come on, it lifted. Standing a few feet away from where I lay was a blue-cloaked figure with a wide brimmed blue hat. Colorful sand swirled at his feet, commanded by some invisible force that he radiated, and then scattered out from him in delicate patterns. The Sand Painter! I’d found him at last, but I was in no position to do anything but struggle with the creature that was trying to crush me.
In renewed desperation, I hacked furiously at the rubbery ropes, severing two of them. Meanwhile, the Sand Painter finished his design and then turned to glance at me. His face was not human, but made of dark blue metal that matched his shiny cloak and hat. His eyes were silver orbs that reflected like mirrors. He had no discernible nose or mouth.
We looked at each other, and then he started to turn away. “Don’t leave me!” I shouted, fighting furiously to break free and crawl to him. “I’ve been seeking you all my life.”
He hesitated. Then he turned and began striding away.
“Meet me at the Red Dust River!” I yelled after him. “I’ll be there soon.”
He paused, his back still to me. Then a sandstorm arose again, obscuring him completely. The winds didn’t touch the design he’d left on the desert floor.
I finished cutting my way free of the sandknot and staggered up. I ran into the storm, feeling around. Soon I was lost and had to check my map book again. I prepared to radio Veeda to tell her what I’d discovered–that the Sand Painter wasn’t human but looked to be a highly advanced machine, perhaps from the days before the great wars and diseases had reduced us to wasteland rats who relied on whatever leftover technology we could salvage. But I lowered my wrist. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t feel like reporting anything yet. I should have been overflowing with excitement to have actually gotten a good look at the creature, but I was gloomy, believing that was as close as I’d ever come.
The sandstorm vanished again, and I removed my mask. I worked my way through boulders, over dunes, and through stretches of cactuses and fallen, skeletal trees. The remains of buildings that had once towered over the land stood here and there–rusted metal frames and chunks of concrete that stuck out of the dunes.
The land sloped downward to the river bed, where more boulders lay scattered in the reddish-colored earth. I glimpsed Skullman warriors hiding behind some of the rocks. They were facing another direction and didn’t see me. I quickly moved away from them, not wanting to take the time to explain that I’d already paid the toll.
Finally I sat down before a boulder, resting my back against it. The Skullmen were nearly a mile away, waiting for a creature I felt certain they’d never capture. I sat there for hours, as the sun drifted farther into the west. I closed my eyes and dozed, and when I opened them again, the Sand Painter stood a few yards away from me. I held my breath and didn’t move, letting the creature take the lead.
The Sand Painter stepped closer to me, but otherwise did nothing. The moments drifted by. Unable to stand it any longer, and fearing he’d leave, I said, “So you came.” It was a stupid thing to say, but all I could think of.
“Yes, I did as you asked,” the Sand Painter replied. He had no mouth, but spoke in a distinctly male voice nevertheless. “So what do you wish of me?”
Chills rippled over my flesh. This was the moment I’d been waiting decades for. The questions poured out of me. “What is the destiny of my people? What can we do to change things, to become great like the civilizations of the past? How can we stop the Wasting Disease from destroying things we try to build?”
“I don’t know,” said the Sand Painter. “I’m only an artist. My function is to make designs in the earth. That’s all I was created for, and all I do. It’s what I’ve done for centuries.”
“But you must have some advice I can take back with me!” I struggled up, my chest heaving. “Anything…please. My people need hope. The wise men said you had the answers, if only we could get close enough to ask.”
“The wise men are wrong,” said the Sand Painter. “I have no advice for you. I just paint pictures for others to look upon and enjoy.”
“But what can my people do?” I said. “We have only our legends. Now another one has crumbled.”
“Then perhaps your legends are useless,” said the Sand Painter. “Perhaps you waste your time on them. Long ago, your people did things for themselves–through their own ingenuity and hard work. Now if there’s nothing more, I shall return to my function.”
When I made no reply, the Sand Painter turned away and began creating his beautiful and meaningless patterns. He paused once, and seemed to be considering something. My heartbeat sped up and I hunched forward, wondering if he’d changed his mind and was going to reveal something more. But then he simply went back to his task.
I put my head in my hands and sat that way for a long time. Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke, the Sand Painter was gone. The stars gleamed in the heavens and the air was cool. Once, we’d dreamed of traveling among those stars and we’d believed it could be possible. But a series of hardships had destroyed our confidence and hope.
I clicked on my wrist band. “Veeda, are you there?”
“Rulo! Thank goodness. It’s about time I heard back from you. Kretz is on his way to look for you. He should be arriving anytime now.”
“I’m okay,’ I said. “I spoke to the Sand Painter and he told me what we needed to do.” I paused, waiting for her reaction.
“Well, what did he say?” Her voice trembled with excitement.
“He said we need to stop believing in him and start believing in ourselves.”
“That’s it?” she said, sounding profoundly disappointed.
“That’s it,” I said. “Rulo out.”
I leaned back and gazed at the stars for a while, my heart heavy with sadness. Then I noticed something glinting in the starlight a few feet away from me in the sand, a small metal object shaped like a sun with a screw sticking out of it. I picked it up, and it warmed my hand. Energy pulsed through me, and images appeared in my mind–of gleaming towers and domes standing amid lush grasslands and forests, of airships crisscrossing the heavens. It was a little piece of the past, and something to inspire me–a gift from the Sand Painter.
He must have taken pity on me as I slept. Or had he intended to leave the gift all along? Somehow I knew those questions would never be answered, that I would never get close enough to speak to him again.
I found a piece of bleached wood and screwed the metal sun into it, creating a scepter. I had no idea if this was what the Sand Painter had intended the relic to be used for, but it worked for me. My destiny had awakened in my heart. I’d lead the Rust Bellies from desert ruin to a glorious new civilization. All who laid hands on the scepter would realize the true potential of our race and know we could rise above any challenge.
I brushed sand from my beard and, holding my scepter forth like a beacon to guide the way, I headed toward my village, new wisdom and purpose burning in my gaze. I felt like a holy man who’d just received a vision, and that wasn’t far from what had happened. In a way, I was now blessed–charged with bringing my people out of despair.
Our faith in the legend had been vindicated. But as always, the upcoming work was left to human hearts and hands.
About the Author
Robert E. Keller has sold a large number of short stories to various online and print magazines, including Murky Depths, Flashing Swords, Necrotic Tissue, Afterburn SF, Sorcerous Signals, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and many more. For links to free online published fiction, visit his website.
©2009 Robert E. Keller
