Beyond the Horizon (25 page)

But the stranger was already swinging the cleaver. First it sailed through the forearm of the old man on its parabolic trajectory. The down arc of the swing stopped when the blade buried into the old man's skull. The force of impact caused a fine mist of blood to spray out across the exposed breadth of the blade. Thicker, lumpier blood and matter wept from the aperture in the old timer's head after he fell to the floor. The stranger squatted over the body, watched the stillness of the man's chest. He stood once he smelled the rankness of the old man's bowels releasing.

Day came on quickly, pooling the shadows of the dunes. The man trudged on. Without the stars to guide him, he turned his sights to the sun. It blazed as a whitened orb. In his mind the man calculated where he needed to head. He kept up the pace for some time and drank the last of his canteen's contents. He picked a distant mountain peak and made it his goal. By midmorning, the sun had risen and it baked down on the sands with a mounting
fury.

The man thought it best to sleep, let his legs rest. He traipsed to a low spot carved into the ridge of the dune. He plopped onto the sand and used his heels to kick out a spot to accommodate his body. He spat out the pebble so he would not choke on it in his sleep. As he reclined into the bed, he took the handkerchief, unfolded it and wrapped it over his eyes, nose and mouth.

Despite the wind and the constant barrage of sand, the man slept soundly. In his dreams he stepped out of the desert and directly to the plains. The stranger—yes, that man from the barrio—he was there, a bird perched on his shoulder.

‘¿Qué hace usted aquí?' the man asked.

‘Funny,' the stranger said. ‘I was going to ask just that.'

The man walked past the stranger toward the hovel. As he came closer to the hovel, his face prickled with flames and the ash from the burning structure pelted his face. He squinted against the fiery tongues and saw a set of blackened bones amongst the timbers. He turned to ask the stranger if this was so, but the stranger had gone. When he turned back to examine the bones, he saw that the ribcage of the skeleton housed a much smaller and misshapen skeleton.

The man awoke abruptly. The sand whipped at his face and he sweated. Whatever dreams he had dissipated in the scorch of daylight. Pulling the handkerchief from his face, he sat up and gauged the sun. To make his way home he needed to walk against the sun, the full force of it beating down on him. In the bottom of a dust bowl he found a few sprigs of tall grass. The man pulled them up, roots and all. He gnashed the flora in his teeth and sucked the liquid from the blades and roots. He started up a dune. With each step he slid back, sags of sand collapsing behind each footfall. He reached out toward the slope and on all fours he began crawling out of the bowl toward the dune crest cut sharp against the sky. The faint countenance of the moon hung above like a half buried relic. But even the moon slipped away from the man, the earth rolling on underneath his trudging. The movement westward ho and once upon a time glimpsed our future only briefly. Our destiny always lay just beyond the horizon. And some who stood looking out over all of creation saw what the future beheld and turned to go back. But the earth is a cruel instrument and it continued on, the ground turning beneath their feet, the horizon ever changing, the future never
here.

Once atop the dune the wind whipped around the man. Ghostly mists of sand blew off the peaks around him. Blisters raised by the unrelenting sun began to weep, pierced by grains of sand. In this morphing land, his path was fixed—a line cutting across the shifting sandscape toward a mountain pass. He walked, casting a backward glance. Along the ridge of a distant dune a figure rode a white horse. His existence flickered in and out with the rising waves of heat. From what the man could see the figure trooped on without regard for the canticles of the sun, a dust rising in his wake like an ether of the outer universe. For a moment the man thought to call out. But his throat was slaked dry and the stranger seemed to bid him no mind. The stranger passed as all things do, blurring into nothingness and then into oblivion. The man watched him go. Then he blinked and turned. His woman awaited him, he knew. He tried to figure out how old their child would be. He began the calculations in his mind as he began to walk. He set his gaze on the horizon and thought about the world to
come.

I started this story some years ago while attending Wright State University. The Wright State community—especially Erin Flanagan and Scott Geisel—have always been supportive of their writers. They provided the best education a writer could want. While taking Erin's class, I met a fellow writer, the incredibly talented and wise Ann Weisgarber. On Ann's advice I searched for the right literary agent in the UK. It ended out being sage advice.

My agent, Anna Webber, deserves special recognition for her determination to see this story in print. She has provided me with thoughtful feedback and careful editing. Many more people involved in the publishing industry have been instrumental in turning my typewritten manuscript into a book. I would like to extend an apology for omitting their names here, but I would also like to assure them I am grateful for their efforts, kind words, and expertise.

Throughout the entire process my wife, Amber, has been a source of constant encouragement. She listens to my worries, dismisses my self-doubt, and understands me like no one else. My children too have been more than understanding. Time I spend writing often comes at the expense of many other things and my family as a whole has been unconditional in their support and love. For this I cannot thank them enough.