The The Wasteland Saga: Three Novels: Old Man and the Wasteland, The Savage Boy, The Road is a River Read Online Free Page A

week of the school year. No more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks. He saw his father’s handwriting as he thought of those words. Summer would never end.
    “Everything ends,” he croaked to the dry silence between two monolithic dunes, as he trudged upslope through the clutching sand.
    It is so hot that even the scorpions won’t come out.
    In the distance, the sun sank lower in the sunburned sky, as dunes began to grow long cool shadows pointing thin fingers to the east.
    Without making camp he lay down in the cradle of a shady dune and fell to snoring.
    When he awoke, the sun had fallen behind the highest dune and a stiff breeze lifted sand, sending it skirting across the smooth surfaces of the dunes. The body of a dead bee lay in the foreground of his skewed vision. His head pounded and he knew he was beyond any point of thirst he had ever experienced. Already his hand was half buried.
    I have been asleep but a few minutes. The sand doesn’t waste time.
    Not ready to move his aching head, he remained staring at the dead bee in the canted landscape. He wasn’t sure, but the sun seemed in the wrong position. If that was the case then it was not a few minutes but maybe the next day, and if that was the case then things were even worse than he had first thought. A new day of heat among the dunes.
    There is little hope.
    So at least, you have some hope.
    It’s just a saying. I actually have no hope.
    No, you said you have little hope. Why?
    Why what?
    Why a little? A little hope would have gone a long way for that dead bee. But for you maybe it is too little.
    The bee.
    The Old Man shook himself upright. His face sandy, he stared wildly about, then closed his eyes as his head began to throb.
    Bees always fly straight to water. Big Pedro had taught him that. And he had seen it. Many times.
    The bee is dead. How can a dead bee lead you to water?
    He was an ambitious bee. Like me.
    Or he was cursed. Like you also.
    Then this brother is a bee to me, he declared in confusion. I will find more bees. His brothers are my brothers. Some always leads to more and where there are more bees they will lead me to water.
    It is morning so it will be cool for a while, but not long. Bees like the heat.
    Bending low he gently picked up the dead bee.
    I will find us some water, my brother.
    He placed the bee in the tin of grease and snapped the ancient lid shut.
    That way seems familiar but dunes are all alike.
    Heading into the sun now he climbed the first dune, and far to the east he saw blue ridges shadowed in the rising sun.
    East is evil and cursed.
    Ah but there are two of us now. I have my brother the bee and he has his brothers.
    Soon the sun was hot, as first he climbed a dune, then descended only to start the process once more. It is the only way, he told the bee. It is the only way I can be sure I am heading to the ridge.
    At the top of each sandy dune he scanned for swarms or movement of any kind. His eyes were still good and yet he saw no bees.
    Maybe in the rocks, brother. Maybe that is where we will find your home.
    At the full blaze of noon the Old Man descended the last dune into a short sandy scrub of low bushes. A few miles away lay the now red rock ridge.
    For a moment the Old Man considered digging among the scrub for water but the plants were papery and did little to convince him of the chance of appreciable water.
    Opening the tin of grease he looked at the dead bee.
    I can only go so far, bee. So which way, huh? He held the bee up hoping to catch a breeze and saw himself from afar.
    This is insane. Look at yourself. An Old Man holding a dead bee in the desert. If he comes back to life you are really crazy. The Old Man realized it was his young self talking to him. The self he had once been and had been thinking of too much since the dream of the child.
    Be quiet. This is not so crazy. One of his brothers might smell him and come for a look. Then maybe I can follow him back to water.
    The Old Man lurched forward