Last Stop - Part 1

“Halt!”

 

The guards at the gate spoke in perfect synchronicity. The man obeyed the soldiers’ command, and brought the heavy cart he was pulling to a creaking stop.

 

“What is your business here?” the soldiers demanded gruffly. Again, they formed their syllables in unison, with the same force, volume, pitch and intensity.

 

The man said nothing, and with the flick of a finger pointed at his cargo. This time the guards took turns to inform the man.

 

“Our community takes pride in the fact that it has been safe, virus free, and self-sustaining for 287 years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 5 days now since…”

 

“6 days,” the other soldier interrupted his partner’s well-practiced monologue.

 

The first soldier cleared his throat and started again.

 

“Our community takes pride in the fact that it has been safe, virus free, and self-sustaining for 287 years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 6 days now since the latest breakout of the plague.”

 

His partner continued.

 

“In order to preserve the health of our colony, traders are not allowed to enter.”

 

“We must ask you to leave!” they said in unison, and to give a bit of extra emphasis to their request they pointed their stone-tipped spears at the man. The trader said nothing, but walked to his cart, and lifted the tarp covering his wares. The two soldiers - in lockstep - moved closer to the cart and what they saw made them forget their training. They sucked in their breath, gaped and mumbled.

 

“Is that a…?”

“I haven’t seen one of those for years!”

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this ever!” the younger of the two cried.

 

“These are from the days from before the plague! Are they all original?”

 

The man nodded.

 

“The letters, the stories, the trinkets - are they all authentic?”

 

The man nodded again.

The guards looked at each other and told the man to wait. They walked back to the gate gesticulating to each other excitedly. The older one pulled on a rope the other end of which was attached to a bell. Soon, more soldiers came led by someone who seemed to be their superior. He briefly talked to the guards who kept looking and pointing in the direction of the man and his cart.

 

The man in charge listened for a while, then raised a hand to silence the soldiers, and shook his head. There was an indignant stirring and murmuring in the soldiers’ ranks.

 

“Sir,” someone finally said. “We have all heard about the things this man has in his cart, but we’ve never seen, heard or…felt them. When we…I mean when our elders came here to escape the plague, they brought only what was necessary for their…I mean for our survival. They created strict laws…I mean good, but severe laws against…anything that would encourage…”

 

“Sir, I want to know what it’s like!” another soldier said. This was followed by a low rumble of agreeing voices.

 

“The very few survivors lucky enough to have these valuable relics from the past guard them carefully and no one in their right mind would part with such treasures,” another voice added, and all heads turned to look at the man who brought a cart full of such special cargo to their gate. By now, a small crowd of people had gathered behind the soldiers, stretching their necks, pointing agitatedly toward the man.

 

“Is it true he has real memories for sale?” someone shouted.

 

“I’ll trade food for your goods! I have powdered milk, and dried fruits!” someone yelled from behind the gate.

 

“I have gold!” someone else cried.

 

Then, they began bargaining and trading amongst themselves.

 

“Two gold coins for a pound of dried figs!”

“A copper piece for two ounces of milk powder!”

 

“Why would he want to part with them?” someone asked.

 

“He’s mad!”

 

“He’s a fraud!”

 

“Charlatan!”

 

He’s…”

 

The man in charge put an end to the speculation with a loud, authoritative voice.

 

“Silence! It’s not safe to let this man enter.”

 

“Just give him a mask!” someone yelled from the crowd.

 

“That’s not what I mean,” the leader replied. “We have masks, that is true, and they have kept us safe thus far.” As he said this, he brought his hand to his face and adjusted his own mask which was indistinguishable from his own face. In fact, the mask was his face. It was made to look like a human face, or perhaps once was a human face, but now it looked distorted and grotesque.

 

“But, what this man carries in his cart is far more dangerous than the virus. You don’t understand!” he continued. “The virus makes our body sick, and we know what it’s like - for that we are prepared, with that we can and have been living for generations. But what this man has sickens the mind, and the heart, and that’s worse than anything you can imagine.”

 

His words were oil to the fire of curiosity whose tiny, tongue-like flames were already tickling the people’s fancy. Someone broke away from the crowd, and started running toward the man who stood silently beside his cart. This rebellious townsman ran past the soldiers and was waving something in his hand. After a few long strides he was quite close to the trader, but suddenly stopped, took a step back and waited, not knowing what to do or say.  They stood facing each other.

 

“Here, put this on!” the townsman finally said, and threw a mask at the trader's feet. “It belonged to my uncle. He was quite a good-looking man, may God rest his soul.” Seeing the stranger’s reluctance, the townsman explained that after a while people got sick and tired of not being able to see each other’s faces hidden behind cloth masks. Generations grew up in masks to prevent the spreading of the disease that had plunged the planet into chaos, and within a few decades threw civilizations the world over into a new Dark Age.

 

“The nostrils are fitted out with filters. They are invisible, though, so we are kept safe and we can have our faces back - well, not our own faces, but a face at least.  It’s almost like in the old days, right?”

 

The trader bent over to pick up the mask. As his fingers touched it, he recoiled from the sensation of the hardened human skin.  He examined it with disgust, and for a moment it seemed like he was not going to pick it up. Straightening his body, he looked at his cart, and at the dead skin mask lying on the ground. He did this for a few times, weighing each option, and then with considerable distaste, he picked up the mask.

 

“We could just never experience…real…what do you call it…love…romance…” the townsman continued. We are not allowed to…develop close personal connections. We must be vigilant, and keep our distance from others. We have ways to ensure the continuation of our species, but we… really want to know…I really want to know what it…feels like to see someone for real…without the mask…without…filters. Ironically, my best chance to do that lies there in your cart. You’ll wear someone else’s face for a while, and I’ll feel someone else’s feelings through their words. We will both get into the skin of someone else for a while, for that is what we need to do to get what we want.”

 

He broke off, and studied the trader intently.

 

“Why are you really here? There are other colonies out there I suppose, are there not?” he continued.  “Yet, you came all the way here. This is the last oasis before one goes into the Great Desert. But no one goes in there anymore. Back in the day, there were guides, but they died out, and we don’t even know what’s on the other side. It’s an ocean of sand - a no man’s land.”

 

The trader said nothing. He turned to look at his cart, and as he did, his shoulders sagged a little, his back bent a touch, and he sighed.  The townsman watched him through his hardened, pale mask, and tried to understand what he was seeing: a man burdened, stooping under the weight of his memories of the past. “Perhaps, he thought, “he seeks to lighten his load, and forget who he used to be by hiding behind a mask.” He was awakened from his reverie by the crowd that was quickly surrounding them. They must’ve felt emboldened seeing that the trader finally donned the mask. The townsman looked at the trader again and wished to look him in the eyes, but the trader was scanning the distant horizon of the Great Desert.  

 

“How much for the diary?” someone cried waving a little book bound in black cloth. The trader turned, saw the people touching his cargo and his body tensed up. He let out a growl and his fingers twisted into fists. He didn’t answer, but walked briskly to his cart, rummaged for a little while, and produced a wooden box that resembled a treasure chest. He opened the lid on the inside of which there were the words, “Donations. Give what you can.”  He put the box on the ground, tore his eyes away from the greedy hands, the pale, motionless dead faces, turned his back on his cart, his memories, his treasures, took a few steps forward, and fixed his eyes on the gentle sand dunes beyond the oasis.

 

The people made quick work of the man’s treasures: small portraits, delicate ornaments, books of fiction, poetry, old records, candles, stacks of love letters, handwritten notes, sketches of a woman’s face - always the same face - dresses, shawls, jewelry, perfume bottles - some full, some half empty, others long free of the pent-up fragrance that could trigger a myriad sensations, feelings and memories. They were picked up, weighed, turned this way and that, tossed back into the cart or quickly slid under long cloaks, or into rough burlap sacks. 

How easy it was to pick apart a lifetime of carefully collected delicate memories! How trivial some of them must have appeared to the crowd hidden behind their dead faces!  And yet, how greedily the hands moved wanting to touch every object that somehow still was impregnated with the ghost of a passion that was very hard, if not impossible, to come by in the world!

 

“Second hand faces, second hand sentiments, second hand lives on the edge of the Great Desert,” the trader thought and reminded himself of his resolve to empty himself of the past, to let the world make of the treasures of his life what it will. What the scents, the images, the words will mean to strangers he cared not. There was a time when he thought a piece of his soul was in all of those items, and now he wanted to be free of them. There was nowhere left to go - after dragging his cart through a desolate, sickened, plagued world, he was now at the oasis called the “Last Stop.”

 

The sun was setting, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Some were still eyeing a little book, a medallion, or a portrait, but the cart was almost empty. The trader took a quick look at the remains. He thought he’d feel lighter, but he felt no change. He was still the same. He was still full of memories. The collection box was half-full. The people gave what they thought was fair: some gave generously, some tossed a worthless coin or two, and some stole away without paying anything. The trader scoffed bitterly and spat on the ground.

 

The townsman that had given the trader a mask earlier walked past the last of the customers who were now returning to the town that was soon to close its great gates for the night.  The townsman brought food and drink for the trader whom the leaders had decided could not enter the oasis. He wanted to talk with the trader, to ask him…he wasn’t sure what. The trader’s appearance stirred something inside him - something he couldn’t name, something that was older and more powerful than anything in his own, grotesque world.

 

The cart stood empty like a raided tomb. The treasure chest was already filling with sand that settled on everything. The world, it seemed, was no more than a crumbling grain of sand being buried at the bottom of an hour glass. The townsman looked for the trader, but saw no sign of him. The sun was quickly disappearing behind the horizon, and in the half-light a figure was walking past the walls of the “Last Stop” toward the Great Desert.

Reviews

[Lorry]

Ahh, I feel this may be the realisation that some come to more clearly while others ignore or deny that we must all make that final journey into who knows what, where or when, without adornment or concealment that only hides our true selves from ourselves.
Can almost see the disclaimer at the bottom, warning us that destination, along with the prices can go down as well as up.
Proper storytelling, propellorly told. 😊

[Laz K.]

"we must all make that final journey into who knows what, where or when, without adornment or concealment that only hides our true selves from ourselves"

This is a great summary of the theme of the story; I like it very much.

Thank you for reading and taking the time and effort to comment.

[Lorry]

You're welcome, enjoyed it immensely.

[Delmar Cooper]

I read this when you first posted it and didn't quite have the words in inventory to talk to you. Still don't so I'll just say damn fine story, really amazing. Thank you for sharing.

[Laz K.]

Thank you. I really appreciate it!

[emmajoy]

' He wanted to talk with the trader, to ask him…he wasn’t sure what. The trader’s appearance stirred something inside him - something he couldn’t name, something that was older and more powerful than anything in his own, grotesque world.'

'Oh! Perhaps all he had, finally... were his -- ? And, perhaps there in the Great Desert - nobody would ever be able to steal or buy what was never theirs.

This really is a finely written stretch of incredible imagination. Want to comment about various unusual inclusions but, might well direct other readers and would much prefer to make discoveries for themselves. You write so fluently, academically, yet the phrasing f;ows from one scene, thought. exchange to another. 'Thought of cart as a means of what might well matter to many but .. a means of more than access. Will read again, taking my place in the inevitable queue.

[Laz K.]

Thanks for reading and commenting.
:)