Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2

by Leverett Butts

  The old man paused here, drew on the pipe, and stared almost sadly into the flames. When he spoke next, his voice had a kind of choked up sound to it like he had inhaled too much smoke. “But Coyote was not Man’s friend. He was jealous of the connection Man had to Father Yucca, for he desired to be the favorite. Eagle tried to warn man to pay little heed to Coyote, but after hearing Coyote’s words, the people grew tired of being in one place. They, too, wanted to move around and follow their mother to see where she flowed. So they ignored the warnings of Eagle.”

  In the smoke, I saw the people reach below their feet with sickle blades and cut themselves free. When this happened, an air pocket in one of the firelogs split and a keening whistle, bout like a scream broke through.

  “Father Yucca,” the old man continued, “was heart-broken. And he wept, for he knew that when man left his roots behind, he would yearn for them evermore.”

  V.

  The People travelled the length and breadth of River Mother’s course. Each time, they stopped, River Mother asked them to remain and heal their roots so they could join again with Father Yucca. Many of the people did, but soon, others would remember Coyote’s words, and they would feel the pull of River Mother’s current, which even she could not control, and they desired to see more of the world.

  Finally, the people were spread apart, and they began to speak differently and to look differently. Some even built boats when River Mother became Mother Ocean, and sailed to faraway lands, never to be heard from again. The others, who remained on the Land, became separated, and while they each called themselves The People, the words sounded different for each tribe: Cheyenne, Lakota, Apache, Arapahoe.

  Finally, Man understood what Eagle had tried to tell him. Most places looked like most other places. Eagle had flown over the Land in all directions, and he knew this to be true. Man began to yearn for Father Yucca again, but he had wandered so far and so long that he had no way of finding Father Yucca. Eagle was very little help; he could tell man that Father Yucca was to the north or to the south, but giving directions from air does not help a traveler on land. Coyote pretended to help, but he was wily and had no desire to reunite Man with his Father. He led Man further and further away. Soon Apache blamed Arapahoe for leading him astray, and Cheyenne blamed Lakota. The People began to distrust each other, and Coyote encouraged this, often telling one tribe that another had dishonored them when no such dishonor occurred.

  The Great Sky Father looked down upon his grandchildren and took pity on them.

  “My family is divided,” he said sadly. “I must bring them together again.”

  And so saying he spoke with his son, Father Yucca, and they agreed that such an endeavor would require the greatest of sacrifices. Father Yucca, therefore, gave up one of his branches and Great Sky Father carved it into a great knife. Father Yucca then gave up another branch, and Great Sky Father bent it into a long bow. Another branch Great Sky Father shaped into a dish, and another became a deep cup. He gave each of these into River Mother’s care and instructed her to give one each to each tribe of Man.

  “Now,” Great Sky Father smiled to himself. “Man must work together in order to eat well, for one tribe will have the bow to kill buffalo while another must use the knife to clean and prepare the meat. A third tribe will provide the dish on which to eat, and the last tribe will have the grail to fill with water from River Mother and to add to the feast. When this happens, the connection between Man and Yucca will be remade.”

  “Let it be so,” said Father Yucca, who now only had one or two branches left, but he feared his sacrifice would be for nothing.

  VI.

  As the old man talked, I felt my head get heavy. I tried to pay attention, but I musta dozed off at some point because next thing I knowed I was standing a few feet aways from this big old desert tree, what Gramps used to call Joshua’s tree. I always wondered who Joshua was and why this tree of hisn wasn’t at his house, but I never did get chance to ask him. Only difference is this tree kept losing its limbs. They turned into all these different things, a bow and a cup and stuff, and floated down this river next to the tree. While all this was going on, I could still hear the old man talking like he was far away, from the sky maybe.

  “Coyote watched this from the scrub on the edge of the clearing.” The old man said, and I could see just a few feet off, a coyote peeking from behind some low brown bushes. He looked in my direction, and I don’t know if’n he seen me or not, but he hunkered down a bit more out of sight. “Though he had separated man from Father Yucca, he was no closer to replacing Man in Father Yucca’s heart. When he saw the sacrifice of Father Yucca’s limbs, Coyote grew angry with envy.

  “‘No matter what I do,’ he said, ‘Father Yucca still yearns for his disobedient children. Look at how he tears himself apart with his grief! I will show him that the true nature of Man is destructive and cold.’”

  From behind the bush, I heard a snort and the coyote run off down the desert following the river. Then I knowed I was dreaming because next thing I wasn’t in the clearing with Joshua’s tree; I was in an Indian camp and the coyote was there with his snout up to this one Indian’s ear. The Indian had a bow in his hand and every time he nodded his head at what Coyote said, he’d grip the bow tighter and pull it in towards him more.

  Next thing I was in another camp and the coyote was whispering in the ear of another Indian. This one had been skinning a deer with a big ol’ wooden knife. Every time he nodded his head, he’d look out towards the horizon with a scowl and squeeze the handle of the knife tight like he figured someone’d show up directly to take it.

  The same thing happened in another camp where an Indian woman hid a wooden plate under her blanket after the coyote whispered to her. And in a fourth camp, this one Indian woman buried her wooden cup and didn’t even mark where she done it so she could find it again.

  “Coyote travelled to each tribe,” the old man spoke again, “and spoke with the guardians of the relics.

  “‘The other tribes will be jealous of your treasure,’ he told each guardian, ‘for they work best together. Soon the other tribes will come to take it away from you.’

  “When no tribes came, each guardian thought to himself, ‘If the treasures work better together, should we not also try to take the others before the tribes come for ours?’

  “They spoke to their chiefs, who saw in the prospect of more treasure, the opportunity for more power. Soon Man no longer desired to reunite with Father Yucca, River Mother, and the Great Sky Father; he sought to supplant them.”

  Then I seen Indians fighting on the plains. Sometimes, one group would get another’s relic, but most times it ended in a draw, and nobody got nothing but grief. I seen other tribes argue with themselves about how to get the other relics, and they’d split off into new tribes and fight over their one relic. After a while, I seen that all these Indian tribes was wandering all over everywhere looking for the relics. (I knowed that one lady shoulda marked where she buried the cup with a rock or something at least).

  “When the Great Sky Father saw how Man had squandered his gifts, he grew even sadder. He knew that now Man had fallen so far away from Father Yucca that they might never be reunited. ‘The time has come,’ he said, ‘when no one wants gods and goddesses to nurture them.’

  “Father Yucca, sagged down, twisting his trunk in his grief. ‘We are driven into the darkness,’ he cried. ‘Man has lost his way, and we cannot help him find it. He has severed his connection to me and to the earth, and only heartbreak shall follow.’

  “River Mother sighed, and her waters slowed. ‘Soon,’ she declared, ‘summers will be flowerless, cows shall not give milk, and trees will bear no fruit. Oceans will be without fish, and poison will choke the rivers. Smoke will cover the earth, and the land will be covered in rock stacked to the sky. Man will weaken and have no shame: Judges will make unjust laws, honor will count for little, and warriors will betray each other and resort to thievery. There will co
me a time when there will be no more virtue left in this world.’

  Then I seen men in long boats with yellow hair and horns in their heads burning villages and killing red and brown haired men. I seen men in metal suits beating other men in metal suits and burning more villages. I seen white men killing red men and red men killing each other. I seen white men beating brown men. I seen yellow men dressed funny and slicing each other up with swords. I seen yellow men and white men flying in the air dropping fire on each other from the sky, and I seen yellow haired men with blue eyes cooking brown haired men in ovens.

  Then I seen it all again.

  Gramps telling me to get up.

  I seen the old man wince and rub his left leg.

  “Don’t be asking foolish questions,” Ma told me, “if’n you see anything you don’t understand.”

  “You’re gonna need to ask a question or two before it’s all over,” Gramps said told me. “Wake up before it is.”

  The old man looked at me like he wanted something from me.

  “You gotta ask the question,” Gramps said.

  “It’ll get you killed,” Ma countered.

  The old man rubbed his leg and squeezed his thigh with a wince.

  “All life is transitory,” he said. “Even your children are not immortal.”

  VII.

  I waked up in the clearing with Lippy biting my pants leg and tugging me. He was all brushed clean, and someone had filled his oat sack with more of them giant oats. I stood up, and I seen another cooked fish next to a smoldering campfire I hadn’t ever made. I ate the fish and swallowed from my canteen what was all full now of cool water. My shoes was clean and set up next to my blanket, so I put them on. I knowed we still had days of desert riding ahead of us, so I folded my blanket for a saddle again, climbed up on Lippy, and headed out in the direction I figured Bretton was on account of the arrow someone had drawed in the dirt by the campfire.

  When we passed where the old man’s tepee was last night, I couldn’t see hide nor hair of him to thank him for dinner and getting me back to camp safe. The ground looked like it hadn’t even been walked on like he hadn’t even been there, but this didn’t raise no hackles on me. I knowed Indians are good at cleaning up after themselves like that.

  Still when we passed the place, I got this funny feeling like I had forgot something but couldn’t for the devil figure out what it was.

  Chapter Eight – Rev. Tallison

  I.

  Will You speak to me today?

  The old man stood before an open grave in the noon-day sun, his silhouette against the sky like that of a Joshua tree: long and thin, his spindly branch-like arms raised up beseechingly to the heavens. His black coat-tails and his shoulder-length thin and stringy hair, once blond, now white as snow, flew all about him like leaves caught in the slight breeze blowing in from the mesas and canyons just outside of town. He was tall, this man, well over six feet, but a lifetime of bending under doorways and stooping down to hear his parishioners had caused him to stand with a slight slump.

  Take Your time; I can wait.

  Opening his eyes, the old man stared directly into the sun as if into the face of the Almighty. He extended the fingers of each hand and slowly pulled them back into fists, grasping at something just out of reach.

  As he stood thus silently, a crow cawed above his head, circled the graveyard twice, and swooped down, landing at the bottom of the open grave. It cawed once more, looking up from the floor at the old man staring blankly into the sky. It tilted its head to the left, then the right, and seemed to shrug before pecking into the hard packed earth and, after some struggle, pulling a worm and swallowing it whole.

  The crow took wing again, perching in the clapboard headstone and looking down at the hand painted inscription:

  GARRETT ORKNEY

  BORN TOO LATE

  DIED TOO SOON

  The crow then surveyed the grave from its perch, seeming to measure the length, width, and depth with an exacting eye before nodding its approval, cawing once more, and flying off into the western sky.

  Throughout this, the old man stood still, hands outstretched, fists clenched, eyes staring blankly into the sun. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and traced rivulets down his temples.

  Why do you not speak to me anymore? How have I displeased you? Will you not give me something?

  A tugging at his sleeve roused him out of his reverie. He blinked three times, lowered his arms, and began to smooth out his coat, vest, and pants. His sleeve tugged again.

  “Merle?”

  The old man looked up again, “Yes?” he said with just a hint of a quaver.

  “Merle? Over here.” The old man looked to his right where a younger man (though by no means young) stood with his hand on the old man’s coat sleeve.

  This new man seemed to be anywhere from his mid-forties to his late fifties; out here, age was a hard thing to tell. Beneath his brown derby, the man’s hair was cut short, dark brown, but with a light salting of gray at the temples. He wore what here counted for his Sunday best, but would, in other parts of the country, barely get him into the church stables: a dark blue suit only slightly worn at the knees, elbows, and seat, but an inch too short in the arms and an inch too long in the legs. The only thing keeping him from dragging the pants cuffs on the ground were his brown work boots which gave him just enough height to avoid fraying the legs. He wore a matching vest over a pale yellow shirt fastened at the neck with string tie.

  “Oh, Caleb,” the old man said with just a hint of disappointment in his voice, “I thought you were…” His voice trailed off a bit; then he blinked again and focused his attention more fully on his companion. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Caleb seemed to take this in stride. “Ardiss sent me out here to make sure you was ready.”

  Reverend Merle Tallison straightened himself, patted the scripture in his right pocket, then his prayer book in his left, and nodded.

  “Yes, Caleb,” he said, sounding more self-assured. “I believe we may begin now. Please have them bring the casket.”

  II.

  “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.” As Rev. Tallison read from the prayer book, the pallbearers brought the casket to the gravesite. The congregation followed silently behind, Ardiss Drake limping at their head, his wife, and his chief deputy conspicuously absent, assisted to his place by his foster brother, Caleb.

  “And though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God.” Rev. Tallison’s voice caught a bit here, but no one seemed to notice. As they came to the gravesite, the congregation formed into rows three rows of six then spread out in a semicircle around the site, finding places in between the other graves and headstones.

  “Whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes shall behold,” he paused again here as if contemplating. The pall-bearers took this for a signal and began slowly to lower the casket into the grave.

  “And not as a stranger.” He finished weakly, but again, no one appeared to notice. Everyone seemed focused only on the casket as it sank into the ground. When this was done, Rev. Tallison turned to the congregation and smiled.

  “The Lord be with you,” he said.

  “And with thy spirit,” the congregation replied.

  “Let us pray,” Rev. Tallison waited until the shuffling sounds of heads bowing was receded before continuing:

  “O God, whose beloved Son did take little children into his arms and bless them: Give us grace to entrust Garrett to thy never-failing care and love, and bring us all to thy heavenly kingdom; through thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.”

  The congregation murmured their amens, and Rev. Tallison motioned for Ardiss and Caleb to step forward. He handed Ardiss the Bible from his right hand coat pocket, and the sheriff opened it to the Psalm he had marked.

  “Psalm 109,” Ardiss’ voice had been soaked in whiskey an
d drug through gravel by a team of unbroken horses. “Hold not thy peace, O God of my praise; for the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me: they have spoken against me with a lying tongue. They compassed me about also with words of hatred; and fought against me without a cause. For my love, they are my adversaries. And they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love.”

  Rev. Tallison winced at the growing anger in Ardiss’ voice. Yesterday, sitting opposite Ardiss in his office planning the service, he had argued against including this psalm, claiming that it was inappropriate for the occasion.

  “Inappropriate?” Ardiss slammed his fist against his desk hard enough to splinter the wood. “You know what’s inappropriate, Merle?”

  When Merle didn’t answer, Ardiss rose from his chair and leaned over the desk, casting a shadow over his rector and closest advisor. “It’s inappropriate that that Irish bastard killed the boy in cold blood trying to leave town with my spic strumpet of a wife. It’s inappropriate the boy’s brother, who should by rights, now be my chief deputy, is off God-knows-where chasing the potato-eating son-of-a-bitch, when I need him here, now. It’s inappropriate that that poor boy, thanks to his idol’s lust and his brother’s hot-headed insistence on vengeance, will have no family at his memorial. And it’s God-damned inappropriate that the Indians have picked now, when my second deputy is off playing hide and go seek with my chief deputy, to start rumbling about ghost dances and war chants.”

  Ardiss’ face had grown beet red, and spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. He began wheezing, grabbed at his groin, and sank, deflated, back into his chair.