by The Eurostar
Edulcore Cicciotto:
The sun is setting when I open my eyes.
This morning we landed here, on this rock pinnacle, in the middle of the Painted Desert. Flying to this place had been easy, yet it was tainted.
I soared over the hot ascending currents, among the vultures. It was cool. I felt a bond with them, dancing in the air.
But Turner, hanging from my legs, was not happy. Yet, he resisted. We had to stay away from the roads, from any place where the Mafia, the police, that Hood could find us. Here, in the middle of nothing, at least we could have some rest. And for a long time we slept in the shadow, protected from the burning sun.
Turner is still sleeping, which should have been harder for him than for me. But soon we'll have a problem, a big problem. We have no reserves of water.
"Take this, He-Who-Came-From-the-Sky."
A voice, behind me. I turn. An Indian!
I know, I should say Native American. But for me, growing up with Western movies, this an Indian, a true one. I am a child again.
He is handing me a flask. I take it. "How do you know we need water?"
The man smiles. "Everybody needs water here." Then he points his index finger toward the east. "Your father is there," he says.
I look in that direction. "My father died..." When I turn my head back, he has disappeared.
Turner wakes up.
"Where did he go?" I ask.
"Who?"
"The Indian!"
"What? Ed, you've gotta buy a hat. You can't fly with that bald head of yours under a sun like this. I wish I had still my fedora."
I stare at him.
"I don't know what you saw, but it was a hallucination, Ed."
"Here, drink from this hallucination, Turner," I say, giving him the bottle.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't speak.
I take the map from the money bag, orient it, and read what's in the direction the man pointed at. I can't figure out what he meant, talking about my father, who died in a car crash in Italy many years ago. Yet, the experiences of this past year have taught me to not skim over the words of a man that can disappear. How many encounters like this have I had in the last few months? The dark dwarf, that bearded man in Chicago, the Naecken beings, Tempus of the Time Trust, and now this man.
The map flaps in the strong wind. I spread it, placing four stones at the four corners to keep it open. We are here, in the Painted Desert. With a finger, I follow the direction to which the man was pointing: Gallup, Grants, Belen, Roswell, Lovington, Hobbs, Midland, San Angelo, Austin, Huston, Galveston. Then the sea, the Gulf of Mexico. And then, Cuba, Jamaica, and... La Perdita?
This is quite a coincidence. There should be some hidden meaning in the words of that Indian. But what?
Turner takes the map. "We need to reach the coast and find a boat to La Perdita. Let me see."
He reads the map, his eyes quickly running from one place to the other. "There's a railroad crossing this desert. See?" He points his finger on the map. "Gallup. Belen. Clovis. Amarillo. Springfield. Memphis. Jackson. New Orleans. We need only to get on a freight train."