Beyond the Horizon

by Ryan Ireland

  Like those dark places surrounding the world we’ve since created, this country was not yet a frontier, a mystery or a destiny. It simply was. Not until the young man came upon the freshwater stream and the grove of saplings did this become a place for humans. Laughable now to think he felt ownership over the land. Funnier still to hear people talk about the infancy of the nation, how young the country was then. Buried under the grass and topsoil, under layers of shale and granite, the footprints of the Indian boy were fossilized, the bones of the early mammals also preserved in a muddied mixture heated into a brick solid state.

  What plants there were would be covered in ash and the delicate leaves ribbed with veins and dimpled with spores, their countenance inked into time and also buried. The Indian boy had wandered for some time now. He’d seen the blind beasts die out, replaced by other more competent things with eyes that provided only slightly better vision. The insects proliferated. Lizards as big as men, some bigger jetted from rocks, snapping at the bugs. Fear of these things had left the boy a hundred years ago; centuries of fear take time for recovery.

  He looked to the sky, the canopy of orange and blood that did not change from morning to evening. Only in the night did it stop glowing. Some days—some decades—smoke blotted out the day and all wandered in the dark. The insects died and so did the lizards. Plants withered. The ground rumbled constantly, shaking rocks down from cliffsides, loosing the soil. Trees crackled and crashed. Winged things—not yet birds or bats—fluttered from the branches. The ones that flew into the smoke fell from the sky. The boy picked up the winged creature, pulled the feathers from its body and bit into it. The cindered air had cooked it already.

  Forests gave way to rocked canyonlands. The ground there was hot. But millennia of diaspora calloused the boy’s feet and he walked amongst the fissures glowering the furious colors of the primordial sky. Another earthquake rattled the land and the calliope of vents screamed out. The stone slab under his feet buckled and gave way. There was a rush of steam. Around him, the winged creatures rained from the darkened sky. Somewhere distant, over the hisses and squeals of this continent’s subduction, a herd of lizards quarreled over the carcass of one of their own.

  The commandante opened the book, looked at the man. ‘Need your surname,’ he said to the man.

  ‘Surname.’

  ‘Yes,’ the commandante said. ‘Family name, last name. It’s how I go about recording your existence.’ The man shook his head. ‘You dont have a last name?’

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘Never had any call for one.’

  ‘Well,’ the commandante said and closed the book. ‘You’ll need to purchase a surname.’

  ‘I can buy a name?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. It’s an administrative fee. Cost of creating a new person.’

  ‘But I dont got any money,’ the man said.

  ‘Nothing?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Caint you just write my name in the book? I gotta get back to my woman. She was done set to have a baby when I left for here.’

  ‘Surely you have some sort of collateral,’ the commandante said. ‘Anything you can leave with me in good faith.’ He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘What’d you ride in here on?’

  ‘Had a mule,’ the man said. ‘But that sumbitch out in the village stole it from me. Thought he might try an kill me too.’

  The commandante sighed. ‘That leaves us with one option,’ he said. ‘You can work off the debt.’ The man didnt know how to respond. He wasnt sure if this was charity or part of a codified system of this fort and the census process. ‘It’s just as well,’ the commandante said. ‘You wouldnt want to be outside these walls right now. Those Indians are coming and they aint going to leave much standing.’

  Three

  i

  Some miles farther north and even farther west, the young man’s wagon broke. For a while now he had taken to tying the reins of the mule to the bench seat during the day. He’d say yah to get the mule to go, then he’d climb into the back of the wagon and fall to sleep with the swaying of the wagon. He awoke when they stopped or hit a bumpy patch. He might take the reins for a time to correct the mule’s path or he might let them stop for a break. Nighttime was still his preferred time for travel.

  He sat on the bench clucking at the mule, promising a break come first light. He looked to the sky, saw Cepheus, the zigzag of Lacerta snaking to the foot of Perseus. For a moment he recalled his father telling him of the love between Perseus, a fearless warrior, and the beautiful princess Andromeda. Their love was great enough that the gods placed them in the stars. Because he was young and naïve, he asked his father if that really happened. But his father laughed as did the other sailors and he said it was as true as any other stories told on this boat.

  The memory came to an abrupt end as the wagon lurched and tilted back to one side. The mule neighed and the young man nearly fell out of the wagon.

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said. He jumped down and stroked the mule’s mane. Then he crouched to inspect what the problem was. In the pale moonlight he saw the wheel canted at an unnatural angle. He swore to himself, stood and unhitched the mule. He tied it to the back end of the wagon with a length of rope. ‘Caint have you wanderin off on me,’ he said. ‘We’ll solve this one come morn.’

  In the light of the full morn, the young man could see the predicament for what it was. The front axle of the wagon splintered apart on the right side. The cracks in the shaft ran through the coupling all the way to the left side. It was a wonder both wheels hadnt given out. The young man figured that if he moved the wagon even another wheel turn, both wheels would be laying flat on the ground.

  He threw a blanket over the mule’s back and rode a short ways out. There he found the grove of saplings by the stream. He let the mule water there and inspected the trees. Grasping one, he gave it a hard shake. It still had some give to it, but it was sturdy nonetheless. Once the mule drank its fill, he rode north a short ways and surveyed the land. It was flat for the most part—a slough in the land just west of here might break some of the wind, make the wind, when there was some, blow more gently. From here he could see out in every direction, see out a dozen miles at least. He’d build up here, a short piece from the stream—close enough to fetch water, but far enough not to worry about flooding. Out here nobody would be able to bother him.

  Next, the lieutenant took the man to the bunkhouse where the fort’s other workers were housed. ‘You’ll get a few changes a clothes,’ the soldier said. ‘Keep the grey ones for workin in the mines. Rest is your day clothes.’

  ‘Day clothes?’

  ‘Cause youre new, you get the night shift: evenin to mornin.’ They crossed the compound, the riot outside the fort swelling, plumes of smoke going up in the air. The lieutenant shook his head. ‘Villagers gettin all worked up over a few niggers, want us to stick our chicken necks out of the fort.’ Inside the curtain wall, what the soldiers called the compound, was much larger than the man imagined. They came to the stoop of a bunkhouse. ‘You’ll get every eighth day off. Get paid on that day. Best to go to the cantina, buy up some rations for the week. Dont want to take to spendin your money like an outta-luck whore.’

  The lieutenant opened the door to the bunkhouse, yelled down the row of stacked beds that they had a new worker. A couple men grunted responses. A few men who had been sleeping roused long enough to belt out some curses. Then the soldier was gone.

  The place smelled of urine and sweat. Aside from a crude lantern constructed from a frying pan with lumps of flaming fat, the light only showed through a sheet of paper stretched over a window frame and made translucent with grease.

  ‘Open bunk over this a-way,’ a voice said.

  The man stumbled toward the voice, came to a bed where a man with a crooked back sat sucking on his lower lip. ‘Got a bed,’ the cripple said again. ‘Gotta take the top though. Arent makin it up there myself.’

  ‘¡Callate la boca!’ a man from the nei
ghboring bunk said.

  ‘You Mexicano animal siestaing all day,’ the cripple called back. ‘Shut your trap.’

  Other men stirred in their beds, grumbled about the noise. ‘Best to git some sleep,’ the cripple said. ‘Long night ahead of ya.’

  ‘I start workin tonight?’ the man asked.

  ‘Think we’d let you stay here if you wasnt?’

  The man pulled himself up to the top bed and lay down. The middle of the straw mattress sagged. As he rested his head, he smelled mildew.

  The Indian boy walked out of the cave. He had awakened in there and was guided to the mouth of the place only by the faintest glow of lights. He stepped gingerly; soreness pervaded his body, ached in his bones. Once the light was strong enough that he could see where he was stepping, he paused near a stalactite. He touched it and the rock was smooth, slick with water. He put his mouth to the end of the pointed rock and suckled as a newborn might on his mother’s tit. It took some time to satiate his thirst; but once it was satisfied he wandered out into the daylight. His vision fogged at the edges and he rubbed his fingertips across his eyelids.

  That was when he noticed how rough his fingertips were, how long his nails had grown. He felt at his face and let his fingers rove over the ruts now cut deep with age into his brow and around his mouth. He felt smaller than before, his back now hunched. Skin on his forearms sagged. When he turned his head, the bones in his neck crackled, the loose skin under his chin flapped. No longer could he be properly called a boy—if ever such a title fitted a child who saw the birth and death of an epoch. He was simply the Indian—a fossil of bygone times, produced in an era yet to be had and set free through the brutish powers of the metamorphic process.

  Overcome with thoughts he couldnt begin to interpret, he sat on the ground. The hard ground hurt his buttocks. He covered his face and cried, each sob jostling a joint he never knew to ache until now. Snot poured out of his nose and over the cleft of his lip. He used the back of his hand to wipe his nose, finding the bridge to be another sore spot. He ran his other hand through his hair, which had grown long and wiry and considerably thinned out. He let out a cry, alien to those who have never imagined themselves in unimaginable scenarios. It was a long sustained yowl, and once his lungs were drained of the cry, he panted as a way to build up to another.

  In the third round of panting, he felt another presence. In the fleeting moment before he looked, he assumed the presence to be the stranger, but it was not. A creature, not rightly a man, but a man-looking beast with a thick brow and muzzled mouth stood looking at the Indian. The pseudo-man opened his mouth as if to speak and made a yelping noise. His arms flew up from either side and swatted at nothing. The old Indian rose from his seat and backed away, keeping his eyes on the caveman. He kept one hand on the ground and felt for a rock to throw. He found one no bigger than a human fist. The caveman yelped again and began sauntering toward the Indian. In one swift motion the Indian threw the rock as if he were still a boy. Glancing off the skull of the caveman, the rock ricocheted into the cave, sending off a flurry of sparks. The half man let out a series of yelps and tripped. Blood squirted from the wound. He rose onto all fours and ran for a short distance that way before regaining his balance on two feet.

  The agreed division of power between the commander and commandante was this. Inside the fort proper—the compound—the commander reigned supreme. The surrounding village and the few civilians who worked inside the fort were the jurisdiction of the commandante. In most every case requiring either of their attention, the proper party was easily discernible. The commander sent small bands of soldiers out on a regular basis with a single mission to kill Indians. This country, he told the men, belonged to their cause alone. ‘Exterminate the niggers,’ he said. ‘Any way you can. No method is too barbaric for their kind.’

  Over time the village became populated with waywards who were too weary for further travel. The commandante gave them shelter, assigned them occupations. Wages were negotiated. Women could always whore themselves out to the soldiers to bring in some extra funds. A whole bunch of workers with slitted eyes and dark hair from a defunct railroad company bunked in a two story structure. They chattered together, rarely conversing with anyone else. The commandante assigned them to maintaining the streets.

  From time to time, the bands of soldiers came back, toting with them the bodies of slain Indians. Their fellow soldiers were laid to rest wherever they had fallen. Indian bodies were taken to the Arab, a young man with dark features. He examined the corpses, taking their hands in his and inspecting the fingernails. He opened the Indians’ mouths and pulled at their teeth. ‘Hatha kharaz gayed,’ he murmured. He inspected their scalps and eyes, prodded at their abdomens with his fingertips. He paid the soldiers accordingly, then set to work piecing out the bodies and turning the various body parts into trophies and jewelry. Many times the soldiers, while they were out wandering the village, used the money they were given to buy a necklace with beads made from Indian teeth or a vial of crushed Indian bones. ‘Wa tajaloka kawi la tohzam,’ the Arab said. He made a motion to show them to mix it in a drink and imbibe it. He sold candles with wicks woven from human hair, the stock made from melted fat.

  ii

  ‘Wake yer shit-splattered sorry ass up,’ the cripple said. The mattress thumped the man from underneath. He started awake. The room was darker than before, more silent than before. Yet all who lived there were moving—silently dressing, pulling on their grey working outfits. ‘Got to git outta bed fer the first shifters,’ the cripple said.

  The man slung his feet over the edge and jumped down. He undressed and pulled on his working greys. Bits of sand and grit combined with the canvas cloth of the uniform would rub his skin raw. No sooner had he pulled on his boots than the men began to file out of the bunkhouse. The cripple waved over his shoulder, beckoning the man to follow.

  Outside it was only slightly lighter, the evening already setting into night. The man looked to the sky, expecting to locate a constellation, but found none. The entire sky was awash in black. The line of workers meandered between more buildings and through an archway. The girth of the passage would have become near impossible for an obese man—fortunately no such condition existed in the walls of this fort. At the end of an alleyway, a staircase steep as a boat ladder ascended up to a catwalk. Above him, the man could hear footsteps trooping across plankwood. He followed.

  Once up on the catwalk, the man could see the fort for its vastness. They were high enough he figured he could see as far as he could on any mountaintop. Then he saw the fires set out far on the plateau. He looked to either horizon. There were more fires.

  ‘Keep movin,’ a voice said behind him. He felt a hand press against his back. Rather than argue he kept walking.

  ‘Tis the niggers,’ the cripple said, half turning around while he hobbled. ‘Lettin us know they there. Old injun trick, a fire every five hundred feet, you in the middle.’ He giggled like a child, covered his eyes with one hand, then removed it. ‘They can see us, but we cant see them. Clever pricks.’

  ‘Keep movin,’ the voice shouted from up the line.

  The men continued along the catwalk. The man could see the catwalk encircle an opening, the scaffolding descending into the depths, engulfed by shadows. A faint light showed from the hole. As seconds passed it grew brighter. For a moment, the man thought it might be a miracle of types, a sign like a falling star. Then the source of the light became evident: a shift of miners on a lift gathered around a lantern. They unloaded and the next group stepped on. Ropes began creaking and the lift—the light with it—descended into the shaft. As his night vision righted itself, the man looked out to the fires on the horizon. In the dark, the men shuffled forward, awaiting their turn to enter the mine.

  As he awaited his turn to be lowered into the earth, the man surveyed the size of the structure—not necessarily the fort and village, but just the scaffolding alone. Such a thing must have taken years to construct. He tri
ed to imagine the process, but could not.

  Like we do, he related it to his own experience. He thought of his own time building his abode out on the plains, how he scrapped the wagon for parts, using the yoke as an upright. He pulled the boards from the wagon bed, then used a rock to pound the nails out of the planks. On the last plank, he became hasty, swung and missed the nail and sliced his finger open. Out here there was no call for him to cry out. Instead he sat on his haunches and sucked until the blood slowed to a trickle. Then he resumed his work.

  From underneath the wagon, where the axle had splintered apart, the man scrapped the iron fitting. He took the bolt from the hitch. In the evenings, when it became too dark to work, he sat running the bolt against a rock, attempting to file it down into a shiv. The coarseness of the iron rubbed his palms raw so he wrapped the handle in a scrap of cloth.

  Finally, after some weeks disassembling his wagon, the man had constructed a frame of sorts for a hovel. He opened the footlocker and pulled out a bundle of sailcloth. Though one of the smaller sails, it still weighed a considerable amount. He stretched the sailcloth over the frame and used cord to lash it tight. Then he took the extra stretches of the cloth and stuffed them into the footlocker thinking perhaps he could use them later—who knows what this place would bring.