Chapter 12
We hurried down narrow streets that linked up to wider arterial routes, where modern cars coughed like a cat bringing up a hairball as they farted a steady stream of grey smoke. My self-conscious feeling at using an archaic form of transport like a litter quickly faded with the smooth ride. We glided past the occasional traffic jam like ants with full bellies.
In the heat and dust, everyone was bustling, going about their business with an intensity that made me feel exhausted just watching it.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Drakeforth said.
“It does?”
“It makes me think people are really stupid.”
“I think you envy regular people.” I ignored Drakeforth’s derisive snort and continued, “The ones who go through their entire lives, with all the normal problems that people face. The tragedies, setbacks, the ups and downs. The stuff that we all deal with. You, on the other hand, are walking around sneering down your nose at all these people who are getting on with living.”
“I am not,” said Drakeforth, waving my rant away.
“You’ve been doing that since the day we met. It’s what drives you.” I made a vague gesture. “This eye-rolling dismissiveness is your thing.”
“You dropped something,” Drakeforth said.
“What?” I looked down.
“Your argument,” Drakeforth replied. “You started out with a strong attack and then completely apologised for it. You dropped it.”
“Do not change the subject.”
“It’s frustration,” Drakeforth announced.
I did a quick mental tally on the last few moments.
“Did you just change the subject back?”
“Really, Pudding, if you can’t keep up, take notes.”
“You’re saying you don’t like people because you’re frustrated?”
“I’m not frustrated, people are frustrating.”
I went back to watching the scenery, or at least watching the people and cars that blocked my view of the scenery.
Drakeforth sighed. I stared harder into the beige haze. There comes a point in every conversation when staying silent is the best option. According to the dialectic teachings of Master Qualtagh, all dialogue exchange is a form of combat. For Qualtagh, the one who breaks the silence first better have deleted their browser history.
Right now, I felt I could remain shush until the cows not only came home, but also had their dinner, watched some TV and went to bed.
A jigsaw wall of massive sandstone blocks marked the edge of the city. We passed under an archway and into the desert, which looked like the city wall, but laid on its side.
The desert looked like every picture of a desert I had ever seen, except more realistic. Our bearers bore us down the road that passed through the dunes without breaking stride.
My guidebook said trees hadn’t been common in Pathia for thousands of years. Instead of trees, a hardy variety of grass grew in vast plains, eaten and fertilised by the goats herded across them. In the last few centuries, the demand for free-range goat products had declined. Without the goats to fertilise the plains, the deserts had spread. The cause of this change wasn’t covered in the book, probably because it was obvious.
After an hour, the endurance of the litter bearers would have impressed anyone who hadn’t spent that time with Drakeforth. Neither of us had said a word, and I was itching to say something.
Kitteh’s crew came to a halt and lowered us to the ground. I eased out of the litter and stretched until I yawned.
Drakeforth exited and made a whispered transaction with Kitteh. Our carrier’s eyes went wide, and he did a double take at Drakeforth. Then he went and shared his apparent good fortune with the rest of his team.
Mid-stretch, I blinked. She stood on a nearby dune, her hair flowing in the light breeze like dark seaweed wafting on unseen currents.
“Drakeforth, look!” I blurted.
“Ha!” he whooped and slapped his thigh.
“Gargle!” I swore. “Look! It’s that woman again.”
“You lose!” Drakeforth crowed. “Lose-her!”
“Yes, you are very clever. Now pay attention, drammit.”
“Personally, I think Qualtagh was just socially awkward and terribly shy. But he is popular with devotees of dialectics, so I knew you were waiting for me to say something.”
I paid half an ear to Drakeforth, my focus on the dune where the strange woman had just disappeared. “Well done, Drakeforth. You may have a cookie.”
Drakeforth seemed satisfied that his victory was complete. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the endless sea of dust. “Some people,” he declared, “upon finding themselves lost in the desert, would embrace the experience as a great travel anecdote they simply cannot wait to regale their friends with.”
Kitteh and his team jogged out of sight over a dune. I sighed and extended a hand, thumb pointing to the sky.
“We are not those people, Pudding. What are you doing?”
“Hitchhiking,” I replied.
“Well, I hope the person who finds your sun-bleached skeleton gets a good laugh from their mates at the pub when they tell the story.”
“Are you happy now?” I asked.
“I don’t need to be happy, my mind is occupied.”
“There’s nothing here.” I looked around. Hills made of sand in all directions. I wondered if we could navigate by the sun. Except it was shining so brightly, that it seemed to be coming from all directions at once.
“This way!” Drakeforth declared, and marched up a shifting slope.
My thumb and I waited in silent protest until he came back and walked off in a different direction. After several oddly elliptical orbits, Drakeforth stopped at the top of a dune and waved at me.
“If you’ve quite finished standing there like the centre of a gravity well, we need to go this way.”