A man was laying unconscious against the brick wall of a bar, holding an almost empty bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand. The sweat dripped from his hair and through his shirt almost sizzled on the ground, and the puddles of his drool turned into semi-white bubbles, with various flies inspecting them, then making their way to his face, hair, and arms; trying to get into the holes of his ragged and torn beige shirt; the buzzing of their wings barely making noise over the vibrating heat in the air. When he regained consciousness, the tall and skinny man rolled over, exposing the revolver on his hip, connected by a coiled metal wire hoop that went around his belt, holding up a pair of light grey pants made out of a cheap canvas, cut messily at the knees. He winced in pain as he tried to get up, still drunk from the night before. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, he patted the black percussion revolver on his right hip. Then he patted the left side of his hip. He found nothing. This woke him up more as he frantically looked around, searching through the spot on the ground where he slept, throwing the soggy bags of trash that he used as a mattress behind him, as he clawed through the scraps of food and bottles of drinks that lay between them. After some digging, he eventually found it: a flint-locked pistol, with a lot of wear on it making it hard to hold properly and a similar loop as his revolver. The man brushed some of it off, revealing the initials, BL.
As Vasquez got up, he noted his surroundings. The bar he had slept outside of the night before was closed and locked, with a handsome young man cleaning the mess left from the night before. He saw the houses, in neat rows connected by the weathered dirt paths, and some people out in the morning, keeping to themselves while rubbing their eyes and holding cold, wet towels to their foreheads in order to combat the relentless heat of the morning sun.
He searched for an opening to go further into the town. He needed supplies; mainly food and drink, for his journey ahead of him. This once lively town has not held up to the test of time. Broken buildings surrounded the town, acting as walls from the outside for the inhabitants, and a dried-out fountain was the centerpiece of the town square. It was early enough so that people wouldn't be out going about their days, but it wouldn't be long before they did, so Vasquez knew he had to make this quick. He found an abandoned stall on the side of one of the dirt paths, likely belonging to a farmer who traveled here to sell his riches in fruits and meat. Although Vasquez could not understand how someone could grow anything in these conditions, much less enough of something and of good enough quality to sell. Shrugging and thinking to himself that this would be his best shot at finding breakfast, he searched through the small cabinets on the inside of the stall. To his surprise, there was a makeshift cabinet, containing a bucket of salt, seemingly covering something. It didn't take long for Vasquez to uncover the treasure left behind: a stale loaf of bread and an old piece of meat, which didn't look too moldy yet.
While struggling to carry the barrel of salt and food, Vasquez heard a horse trotting around him—it's the newspaper boy doing his early morning rounds, and he tossed a loosely wrapped bundle of paper next to every door along his path. The boy, half asleep and continuously patting his head with his hand, moving his long and unkept hair out of his face, didn't notice Vasquez frantically hiding behind the stall, crouching down until he could no longer hear the horse or the flapping of the paper in the air before it hit the ground. Vasquez grabbed a portion of each of the bread and meat. Then he feasted on what was left, shoving the raw meat into his mouth and attacking the stale loaf of bread, chewing vigorously. Once full, the man started thinking of his plan of escape.
Sneaking past the town again would be harder, but he had to do so in order to follow the morning sun. Luckily, everyone this morning was too preoccupied with the unnatural heat, which, even for a small town in the desert, was too much for some to bear, with a lot of the townspeople choosing to stay indoors and out of the sun. He found another opening, where no one could come close to seeing him, and he dashed across the town's square, grabbing one of the newspapers, and made it to the bar which he called home last night.
Hiding behind the bar, Vasquez looked around more, looking through the trash until he finds enough bottles of alcohol to last him for his journey ahead. He wrapped everything in the newspapers, and he headed east to the outskirts of the small town, hiding in the blinding sunlight, being careful not to be seen.
Finally able to collect his thoughts, Vasquez reflected on the previous couple of days.
This was his first town going to since starting his self-inflicted pilgrimage east, hoping to one day come across the ocean. He had left his hometown, Anjo, a small and corrupt city on the western edge of the country. The journey during the day was rough. He had seriously underpacked during his rush out of Anjo and quickly ran out of satisfying meals, and the guns he had hidden under his shirt did not add much comfort to his back. Vasquez also held a small bag of a change of clothes and as much food and drink as he could manage to fit, fashioned atop a stick made from a young tree in Anjo— sturdy, but ashy and slightly burned at the bottom. He did not know where to go, except for one direction: towards the rising sun. The further he walked along the barely noticeable dirt roads, the cool, autumn breeze that was ever-present in Anjo seemed to disappear rapidly, being replaced by a drier, stiller atmosphere. It was also getting hot. Not the almost unbearable heat Vasquez would eventually feel waking up behind the bar, but still noticeable enough to start feeling uncomfortable. The trees that were plentiful seemed to have phased out, being replaced by shrubs, patches of grass, and small rock stacks, no more than two feet high. The ground also seemed to be getting drier under him. He felt his steps crumble instead of softly sink into the ground.
He had seen a couple of travelers along his path, and one thing they all had in common was horses to carry them through the day. This was not a luxury Vasquez had been able to acquire when he started his journey, and he was stuck on his feet until he could find one. The first real interaction he had was with a religious group, a small caravan of four men and three women, all riding atop a horse, with one of the men's horses carrying a small wagon housing the food and water of the group. They all looked eerily similar, white as a bone, with even the women having shorter hair, shaved off at the sides and combed slicked back with not a single strand of hair falling outside its place, which was the same way as the men, although they were also wearing small caps that looked like they were made with lightly sewn wool, with some of their hair poking out from the front and back ends of their caps. They were all wearing white woven pants and shirts with no sleeves made from the same, light material as the pants. All of them had various pieces of jewelry, ranging from a simple gold necklace around the neck of the woman who had hair slightly longer than the others (she looked to be the youngest of the three women, with clear skin, and eyes that, if Vasquez were to look at them from the right angle, seemed to reflect the sun itself into a golden gleam), to an extravagant set of three looping earrings, with golden roses dangling from each loop, on one of the men. The man in the front, who had an equally extravagant crown of gold, Vasquez assumed he was the leader of all of these people, stopped the caravan when he noticed Vasquez walking past them. At this point in his short journey, the bag was light enough to be on the stick without much interference in his balance, and his aching back was very thankful for that.
'Young man!' The leader called out. 'What are you doing all this way into the country with no horse and no supplies?' Vasquez thought about replying but instead just weakly smiled at the man and kept walking.
'Hechh son, we don't mean no harm, we are just servants of the Lord Kraesa.' One of the other men, the tallest of the bunch, and wearing a long row of golden bracelets covering his arms, shouted out with a thick accent that sounded like he was chewing through cement.Vasquez could understand enough to know he should probably just talk to them now before they feel disrespected or get more concerned about him, but it still felt like a complete waste of thought and energy. He mustered up all of the politeness he could and said, in the best country accent he could make, 'I am just heading to the next town over. I am visiting some distant family. I shouldn't be too far now, right?' He hoped that the answer to that question was a yes. Truthfully, he had no idea where or what the next town over was.
'You mean Huecor?' The leader asked. His voice was soothing and somehow energizing, and Vasquez felt a weird sense of calmness after hearing it more. He had an accent he couldn't recognize. It sounded noble and proper. 'It isn't more than a quarter day's journey by horseback, but with just those legs, it'll probably be another day before you reach there. Is this your first time making this trip?'
'Yes, it is,' Vasquez replied. 'Usually, my family comes west in order to see me.'
The leader looked around before smiling, with even more gold on his teeth that pierced upwards through his gums, and said, 'Well, I suppose you would have to return the favor at some point; but still, making a kid like you walk there is downright dangerous. It is a godless place,' he beckoned to one of the older women, wearing a set of dainty gold earrings that linked to a similarly constructed necklace, and she got up from her horse and walked to the front of the caravan. The leader whispered something in the woman's ear and pointed to the wagon. She walked back to the wagon while the leader continued talking, 'Where are my manners? I almost forgot to introduce myself! I am Fritz, and these here are my people. This one here, who barely knows how to talk, is Herb.' Fritz laughed and motioned towards Herb, who raised a hand and smiled, showing a set of golden animal teeth instead of his own. Fritz continues, 'This wonderful lady is my sister, Jacque.' The woman who went to the wagon, and who is now walking towards Vasquez with something wrapped in a piece of cloth, bowed her head. Fritz then pointed to the other two men and women in succession, 'This here is Lopez,' the man with the hoop earrings raised and lowered his hand, 'then Willy', he seemed to be the shyest of the bunch, hiding in between Herb and Lopez), 'then Mary, Jacque's older sister.' The other older woman, wearing a similar golden structure around her ears and neck, bowed her head, similarly to her sister, 'and this is Nadii.' The younger woman didn't react.
Jacque handed the bundle of cloth over to Vasquez, and he opened it to find a healthy portion of fried fish in between perfectly baked pieces of bread, a crunchy crust, and soft and airy insides. Not one to refuse free food, especially given his current situation, Vasquez hurriedly wrapped it back up and began to try and put it in his bag while saying words of gratitude to the caravan. Once he was fully packed, Jacque grabbed Vasquez's hand very softly. But something about the way she was holding it made her grip feel impossible to escape from.
Staring directly into his eyes, she started to chant in a soft, airy voice, 'Kraesa, save his ugly soul,' Vasquez, caught off guard, stood in silence.
Her sister, Mary, joined in, 'Kraesa, love his ugly soul,' Vasquez, becoming equally more aware and creeped out by what was happening, tried to move his arm from Jacque's grasp, but the soft hand only seemed to coil tighter around his skinny wrist. He then tried to reach for one of the guns tucked in his pants, but his attempt was futile as Jacque slapped his hand away.
Willy and Lopez harmonized, adding a low and deep tone to the chant, 'Kraesa, perfect his ugly soul,' With his free hand, Vasquez grabbed his stick and shoved it into the ground, attempting to use the sturdy piece of wood as leverage to get away from Jacque's grasp. However, even this was not enough, and the stick cracked and split in half from the tension, causing Vasquez to fall on his knees, the guns under his shirt stabbing his ribs, the almost empty bag following suit, landing next to him.
Fritz, with the loudest and most confident voice, chanted alongside them, 'Kraesa, please rescue this ugly soul from the raging fires of hell,' Resigned, Vasquez stopped trying to struggle and allowed the prayer to continue.
'Kraesa,' Nadii whispered, but soon her voice turned louder than the others, who ceased their chanting at the sound of her voice. 'We have offered this traveler our bread and our fish and our hope in him, and in return he will devote his life to you, so let us ask you to please allow him into your graces.' As soon as the prayer finished, Jacque released her grip on Vasquez, and his arm limply fell beside him on the ground.
Slowly regaining his balance, the shocked and terrified Vasquez stood in place, looking around at the caravan of blindingly white devotees. Shaking the fear away and trying to clear his mind, he reached for the pistol on the left side of his shirt tucked into his pants, but he did not reveal it. Instead, he grabbed his sack of food and ran. He ran until he no longer could see the shining stars of hellish light that prayed for or cursed him moments before. He could not tell which, and he was not tempted to find out. He slowed down when he finally felt enough distance had grown between them, and kept along the dirt path, eating his fish and bread. Blessed or no, it tasted heavenly, and gave him enough energy to continue onwards.
By the end of the day, he finally made it to his destination, the small town of Huecor.