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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Mirage
Herschel Cozine
A blazing midday sun, its tentacles of fire reaching down to sear the scorching earth, raged in the cloudless sky. There was no breeze, and the wilted mesquite stood motionless along the desert trail. A cloak of silence was thrown over the terrain, eerie, surreal. Heat waves gave a life to the rocks and cactus; a slow steady shimmering like that of a ghost.
A cloud of dust billowed on the horizon, listless; settling back to earth in a lazy contempt of the force responsible for its disturbance. Slowly, lethargically, a figure appeared; first a spot in the distance, becoming larger, forming two spots, shimmering through the heat.
The two men walked in silent defiance of the heat and dryness. No longer able to lift their feet completely free of the ground, they raised little wisps of dust with each step. The old man lagged a few feet behind the other, head down, supporting himself with a long stick. A dry cough racked his body, and he doubled over, his free hand clutching at his chest.
“Hank. Stop a minute.”
The young man turned around and with a vacant stare and scrutinized the scene before him.
“Can’t,” He said in a hoarse baritone. “Gotta find shade. A few feet more.”
The man’s cough degenerated into a wheezing rattle, emanating from deep within his body. He straightened up, leaned against the pole, and pulled himself forward.
The shade of the mesquite offered a refuge for the two men. They collapsed at its foot, huddling against the small shadow, made smaller still by the position of the sun high in the sky.
The old man coughed again and sat up, resting his back against the spiny trunk of the bush. He took out a large kerchief and feebly mopped his forehead, letting the frayed cloth fall over his eyes and nose.
The young man squinted up at the sky.
“Must be noon.”
He reached down and unlaced his boots, pulled them off and placed them in neat symmetry at his side. He unbuttoned his shirt and shook it with both hands, cooling his skin.
The old man dozed. His battered hat fell awkwardly over his head, giving him a drunken appearance. He made no effort to remove it.
“How much farther?” the young man asked, directing his question at the old man’s feet.
“Too far. Forget it.”
“We’ve got to make it.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be a damn fool. We’ve got to make it.”
The old man grunted and fell silent. His wheezing breath made the young man look away. He took the canteen from his belt, unscrewed the cap and turned it upside down. Empty. He threw it away in disgust.
He started to lean back when a shimmering in the distance caught his eye.
“Gus.”
“Yeah?”
“Look! Over there.”
The old man didn’t move.
“I said ‘look’.”
Gus turned his head slightly, his eyes crinkled against the glare of the desert sand. “What?”
“There’s water ahead.”
The old man grunted. “No water for miles.”
“You’re crazy. It’s straight ahead. No more than a mile or so.”
“Mirage.”
“What?”
“It’s a mirage,” Gus repeated. “This time of day, with this heat. See ‘em all the time.”
“No it isn’t,” Hank said. “I’ve seen mirages. This is real, I tell you.”
Gus leaned back and closed his eyes. “Son, how many times have you been out in the desert?”
“I don’t know. Quite a few.”
“How many mirages have you seen?”
“Don’t know that either. But I’ve seen enough to tell when they’re real and when they’re not.” He stood up. “And this is not a mirage. Let’s go.”
The old man didn’t answer. A few minutes passed before his deep regular breathing told the young man he was asleep.
The old fool. He’s giving up. There’s water just a half hour ahead, and he doesn’t care. What did life mean to him? Desert rat, that’s all he is. Never wanted to amount to anything. Damn the man who quits.
The young man got up slowly and inched his way towards the water, stepping gingerly along the hot sand. Each tortuous step took him closer. The heat burned through his hat and seared his eyes and mouth. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry that it burned his throat.
He walked a little further, his head down, his eyes shaded against the bright sand and endless sky. When he finally looked up, he sighed in despair. The water was no closer. It appeared to be moving, staying ahead of him, taunting him.
Gus was right. It was a mirage.
“Damn him!” Hank muttered. He took a last look at the mirage, then turned his back on it and, half crawling, made his way back to where Gus was sleeping.
He removed his boots again, leaned against the tree and closed his eyes.
Never should have come. Never again. Only a fool would come back. Only a damn fool. He glanced at the old man and spat.
“Only a damn fool,” he said out loud.
Once, a long time ago, the desert had held a deep and powerful fascination. The vast stretches of sand and rock, dotted with sagebrush had seemed so romantic, so mysterious. And the riches it possessed in gold and precious minerals it guarded jealously and fiercely from the feeble, prying hands of man. Yes, the desert had been an enchanting placeonce.
Wiser and stronger men than he had succumbed to the desert magic, and had lived to recall their brush with fortune and immortality. They were the lucky ones. Only those who returned could tell of the hell called Death Valley. And only fools returned to try again.
The old man coughed himself to an uneasy wakefulness. He blinked his eyes and rubbed his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. The young man was sitting up lacing his boots.
“Let’s go.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Too hot.”
“We’ve got to get there by nightfall. We can’t survive another night here.”
“There ain’t no ‘there’,” Gus said.
“There is so. There has to be. This Godforsaken desert can’t go on forever.”
“Too far. Too hot. Forget it.”
The young man stood up angrily.
“Get up, you old fool. What’s the matter with you? We’ve got to make it.”
Gus sighed deeply. “I spent most of my life out here. I seen it all. And I know when I’m licked. No sense fightin’ it. I’m too old and too tired to try.”
“But I’m not!” Hank shouted. “You may want to quit. But think of me. We’re in this together, Gus. You can’t quit now.”
The old man sat up straight and squared his hat on his head. He rose to a standing position with much effort, supporting his weight against the stick, his back refusing to straighten. He winced with pain and fatigue.
“Which way?”
Hank frowned. “What do you mean, old man?”
Gus scratched his beard and shrugged. “Remember that mirage you was chasin’?”
“I was out of my head. I’m better now. Let’s go.”
“You’re still chasin’ it.”
“No I’m not.” He pointed straight ahead. “We’re going this way.”
Gus chuckled, a soft dry sound from somewhere in his throat. “Different mirage. That’s all.”
“Damn you!” Hank said. “There’s help ahead. You said so yourself back on the trail.”
“I said a lot of things. None of ‘em true. There ain’t any help ahead.” He pointed to his left. “Or that way. Or that,” pointing to his right. “Mirages.”
Hank ripped his hat from his head and slapped it against his side. “Somewhere ahead there’s a town. And water. And help. You have to believe it. You can’t give up now.”
The old man contemplated for a long moment the man standing before him. A quarter of a century faded before his eyes, melting under the desert heat. Before him stood a young man filled with dreams and a burning ambition. Years of sweat and tears and near fulfillment drenched the parched earth before him, giving a new surge of hope and strength to his weary body.
He brushed his hand across his face slowly and thoughtfully. Then, with a trace of a smile curling his lips, he started to walk.
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