DUALITY: The World of Lies (32 page)

Even on the living side of the void, water
sources were in short supply, as was food. His rations were fully
depleted. Tantalizing clumps of fruit hung from palms too high to
bother scaling. Gahre gathered that since they were green and none
had fallen, they were under-ripe anyway. After some trial and
error, he found edible cacti fruits that, along with beetle, snake,
and scorpion soups, met his minimal nutritional requirements. He
had mistakenly thought his one large waterskin would be sufficient
here. Gahre did not need to consume water as often as most men and
mistakenly thought he would adapt quickly to the desert climes.
Such was not remotely the case. His large frame, high rate of
activity, and unsuitable garb all compounded upon one another to
drive up his hydration requirements. Two waterskins a day, well
over three liters, was the requisite minimum. Since he only had one
skin, he was left continually foraging for this one rare supply,
which wasted hours upon hours of his day.

As difficult as survival was on the living
side, doubts of his ability to survive long on the other wormed
their way into his mind, gnawing away at his typically unwavering
confidence. In time he came to a place where the living land also
gave way to the sand in the south and a great stretch west as far
as the eye could see. This at least told him where he was. The
atlas showed such an area where the desert bore into the west like
a great bay on the ocean. To circumvent it would require him to
trek hundreds of kilometers back westward, south, and then east
again. To cross this barren stretch straight south was only
forty-three kilometers. Though from his previous experiment, he
knew he couldn't make it nearly that far with only the one
waterskin. Dismayed, he started into the western route and almost
immediately came upon a semi-permanent camp. It was deserted, but
had not been so for long. A caravan of perhaps two dozen people
with five wagons had been here the night before. The coals of their
fire were still warm. To his relief he found a well there and drank
himself silly in it. Littered about were ceramic water jars that
had been reinforced by a metal mesh. None were intact, and he
wished he had himself a few of those right now. With three, he
reckoned, he could have taken the shortcut south.

The group that had camped there tracked south
straight out into those barren lands. He set out on their trail in
the hopes he might make the crossing with them and barter some food
or wares. A few hours in he caught sight of the caravan yonder and
approached them to hailing distance, waving his arms, anxious to
befriend and trade with them. His hail was met by a volley of a
dozen arrows that he narrowly dodged. One sliced through a loose
flap of his cloak while others buried themselves viciously in the
sand about his feet. He backed away out of their range, and they
did not pursue. He wondered at the gesture though. A lone man
approaches their large contingent and they feel threatened enough
to loose deadly weapons? Either they were just evil in their own
right, or this was a land of brigands, and they had taken him as a
scout. At any rate Gahre ceased his pursuit, gathered the
well-crafted arrows, and returned to the site with the well to make
camp that night. The long lonely route it would be, and so be it.
As far as he had already come, what sort of laughable difference
did another hundred or two kilometers make?

By this phase in the journey, his legs no
longer felt fatigue and he made quick tracks to where the living
lands curved south and then east once more. He was curious to see
the world ahead as it was marked by a most peculiar feature in the
atlas: a river that flowed east though not into any lake or sea,
but rather ran itself dry irrigating the farthest peninsula of
living land in the eastern world. There was a township there on the
tip of it named Mar Valda. Gahre could no fathom why men would
settle at this furthest eastern point in the world when boundless
virgin lands were ripe for plucking in all other cardinal directs.
What use was the Sea of Sand to man? It was a resource of nothing.
Sand and more sand; heat, wind, and death.

He soon found sign of man, then track, then
road, which he followed along. More weary bands passed him going
west. They did not fire upon him at least. Nor did they do more
than grunt in response to his friendly hails as they passed,
looking straight forward as though they could not see him. Queer
and unfriendly folk he thought with each encounter. He could see
their garb was far more suited to this environ. For all the heat,
the thickness of their hoods and robes surprised him. They seemed
to be of two layers, pitch black on the inner lining and bright
white on the outer shell. Custom or function? He pondered this til
deducing it was the latter. The white reflected the relentless rays
of Cearulei as the black absorbed the heat of the body. He prayed
there be a provisioner of ample wares in Mar Valda, and fruit, and
guides for hire of such dialect he could comprehend to instruct him
on the secrets of the desert.

Mar Valda, to his delight, was a lovely small
township, with clean streets and well-dressed children skipping
about and playing ballgames in the evening. The town came alive in
the evening and stayed that way through night. The people spent the
hot awful daytime slumbering away in insulated darkness. He needed
to do more here than resupply. He needed contacts if he were to lay
the proper groundwork for his most formidable challenge
yet.

He boarded at the inn and felt secure enough
to leave his gear there. For safety's sake he buried the bulk of
his remaining gems safely off the road outside Mar Valda. On the
outskirts, where Mar Valda met the Sea of Sand, the caravan that
shot at him days before was parked and camped, perhaps unwelcome in
the town limits but still permitted to trade. He approached their
group. There was a man in his fifties of rugged weathered features
who appeared to be their leader. Gahre dropped a dozen arrows at
his feet. These were their property after all. They laughed at his
audacity and agreed to talk. When Gahre told them of his intention
to cross the Sea of Sand to a land beyond it, they laughed all the
more, but they gave him a name of a Mar Valdian man, Javal, who had
led previous explorers on expeditions to the second oasis. None
went beyond there, they told him, because all what lay at the end
of that expedition were the bleaching bones of those who had tried
before and a place among them for the next fool who
followed.

Gahre got some children to point out Javal, a
swarthy fellow of nearly Gahre's stature drowning in a bottle of
fruit liquor at the tavern. Gahre had never been any kind of tavern
goer or a drinker himself, having seen first-hand in Tulan how the
old demon liquor could fell a man into an early grave. Despite the
orderliness of Mar Valda, it was in many ways a lawless place, or
at least one of very different values than those to which he was
accustomed. The barmaids were dressed... provocatively, to say the
least, some sitting upon men's laps and displaying intimacy in full
view of the patrons. The heavily tattooed Javal was thrusting coin
at one demanding her company and becoming ever more infuriated by
her rebukes. Gahre almost walked out before even introducing
himself, not wishing to associate with a man of such low character
and lack of self-control. But, he had heard from more than one
source that Javal was the resident expert on deep desert
expeditions and earned a living as such as a guide. So Gahre,
against his screaming better judgment, sat with Javal and told him
he had a business proposal. Javal was in an ornery state and
insisted he did not do business with any man who did not know how
to hold a drink. Gahre thought that was an odd standard to judge a
man by, but agreed to a drink or two and declared that he was
buying. The liquor burned as it went down but his constitution held
it well, and soon he came to find himself having quite a fun time
with Javal. He was a strong man like Gahre. They took to arm
wrestling and proved worthy opponents, attracting a crowd among the
patrons, some of whom even made wagers on their matches. It was a
confusing series of wins, losses, and draws. Gahre had not before
met a man who could beat or equal him in a feat of physical
strength, at least not in his adulthood, and he was duly
impressed.

Gahre thought better than to mention anything
of a full crossing. Instead, he claimed only an interest in an
expedition to the far oasis. Javal went on about the expenses: the
camels they would need, the jars, and paying water fees to those
who controlled the first oasis, without access to which no journey
to the second was possible. To Javal it was purely a matter of
gear, beast, water, and patience. They would need hundreds of jars
to be buried in the sand at further and further intervals, a sled
of sorts to cart them across the sands, and shovels and tarps to
build cool shelters in which to rest out the grueling heat of day.
First thing’s first, Javal told him, get on a night schedule,
because they would only travel under the red mantle of Rubeli, and
not one step would they take under lethal glare of Cearulei. His
fee alone was a staggering sum of 1500 coin, and then there were
the camels, the jars, the water fees, and the gear. That accounted
for the bulk of wealth he had brought with him, and probably the
entirety of it in reality since surely unexpected costs also would
crop up, like the evenings bar tab.

Many of the women in the bar, he realized,
were nightwomen! Several had sashayed up to him displaying their
propped up bosoms and bare cleavage and offering him “services.”
Gahre was intrigued and offended and frightened all at once. He had
heard whispers of such practices in the Far West, but apparently
the societal mores here in the Far East were similarly lax. He
politely declined each offer. He was inebriated, and he felt it.
Reminded of the Cloudy Moss Pod's effects, he resolved himself to
stop his consumption. Javal began to exhibit extreme behaviors,
cursing and threatening other patrons, who mostly ignored his
antics. They must be used to him, Gahre thought. He got Javal back
to his own room at the inn and laid him in the bed before his own
mind too gave way to dizzying intoxication. He vomited in the
washroom, which disturbed the hostess of the inn. Gahre clumsily
apologized for waking her and made it back to his quarters where he
passed out fully clothed on the floor.

That floor turned out to be the coziest bed he
had known in weeks, and he slept hard into the next day. He awoke
after noon with a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and a sapped sore
body. Javal was in even worse shape, so Gahre left him there to
complete his recovery. He set out and found the local tailor and
ordered desert robes fitted to him, in the same style as Javal and
others wore, with layers of black and white, formed of breathing
wool. From the cobbler he bought hiking sandals of the highest
price and best claimed durability. When all was done, he looked at
his reflection and nodded with a smile. It all felt right, and he
was virtually indistinguishable now from the locals.

As the sun set in the east, Javal languidly
came back to life. He brought Gahre first to eat with his family,
his parents and siblings that is. Javal was unmarried and seemed to
like things that way. The cuisine was more vegetarian than Gahre
was accustomed to, but its lightness seemed to suit the climate
better, and ultimately it did the job of sating his ravenous
appetite. Following dinner, or breakfast, or whatever one would
call it, it was off to barter with the camel breeder, and Javal
filled his ear about all the nuances of camel ownership. Not too
old, but not too young. You needed one that knew the desert itself,
and was hardy enough, and most of all had a fair disposition. Gahre
had never handled one of these beasts and found himself taking an
immediate dislike to them, in retaliation to their immediate
dislike of him and, well, everything else.

He initially trusted in Javal's judgement and
let him barter on his behalf, but the more they “bartered” the more
Gahre suspected he was being double-dipped upon in every trade he
made with Javal. Wheeling and double-dealing seemed to be a way of
life here. He soon even found himself counting his change for
tavern meals and small items, lest he be cheated for a pittance. It
was a vexing aspect of the culture, but one he would need to come
to terms with since there surely was no changing it.

Negotiations tended to carry on and on at
great length, and Gahre began to understand the role patience and
nuance could play in lowering costs. He never outright acknowledged
his suspected collusion between Javal and the sellers but did hint
at it in the right moments. The endless waste of words and
mistruths that had to be maintained in the name of face wore on his
nerves. He much preferred the concise and honest business dealings
he was accustomed to back home, but he played along, held his
ground when necessary, and even walked away at times. He was
alarmed to watch what he had once regarded as a small fortune
dwindle away so rapidly. Shovels and tarps for the day shelters,
sleds, camel packs, saddles, ropework, and jarring. Jars, jars, and
more jars they purchased in bulk from the potter til he was out of
stock, and then they pre-ordered even more. This high volume was
necessary because it was with these jars that they would bury
caches of water further and further out into the desert until it
was possible they should reach the far oasis and return to the
first without dying of thirst. It was a maddening process Javal
described, because moving further than the previously laid cache
required one to drink more, and to consume a portion of the first
cache on their return trip to gather more jars of water and repeat
the process. It was a system of diminishing returns, so the farther
you laid your caches the more you consumed. Thus there was a limit
to how far one could stretch his resources before it became a
zero-sum proposition and no further caches could be laid. The
second oasis was within reach of this range, but Gahre agonized in
secret over the stretch he sought to conquer beyond it. The Sea of
Sand had never been crossed and no one knew, at least among the
common people, what if anything lay on the other side. This was due
to one simple unavoidable fact: It was physically impossible for a
man to get there.