Circles

The sun beats down relentlessly; the only thing keeping my head from cooking, is the scuffed leather of my battered hat. The brim, wide enough, that if I stand straight, it casts a circle of shadow across my face and neck, but the rest of me has no respite.

In spite of the heat I keep on trudging, one foot in front of the other, the miles slowly disappearing under my aching feet. Moving ever forwards to the distant hills. The heat slowly baking any enthusiasm out of me. My muscles ache with every movement, but I don’t stop. The pace never varying. What else am I supposed to do? Sit down on the tarmac and cook? I remember a documentary, back in the time before. Early man first stood up to get his head further from the baking ground of the prehistoric savannah. It helped him think more clearly, be a more effective hunter. All I keep thinking is I wish I was taller, to get my head, further away from the boiling black of this road.

Staring ahead helps a little, focussing on where I am going, rather than the endless road at my feet. The distant hills beckon, the promise of lush green, shimmering in the haze. The dusty prairie on either side, barren and lifeless by comparison. So, I stride forward, shoulders back, eyes front, like back in the academy, on the parade square. The road ahead never bending, gradually narrowing until it disappears in the shimmering heat.

Lost in my thoughts, I veer left stumbling off the slight rise at the edge of the tarmac. It makes no difference really, on or off the road, so I walk on in the dust. My footfalls raise little puffs of grey that drift gently as I leave a line of prints.

Eventually stepping over the prickly tufts of grass becomes more wearing than the merciless heat of the road, making my feet feel like they’re on fire. There is a song about that, I half remember from before. The tune kicking around in the back of my head, but the words never quite all there.

Up ahead there’s something in the road, stretching from one side to the other. For the first time in what seems like forever, my pace quickens. Eager to see something different, something to break the monotony. But it’s just a crack. Thick, as wide as my arm, across half the road, then spidering out into a million different cracks across the other side. I twist my head. It looks a bit like a weird tree. One of those funny looking ones they have in Africa, a Bao…Bao something… A Baobab. That was it, they have a story about it being planted upside down. Looking down at it, puzzling out the network of branches in the cracks, I smile, the caked dirt on my face tight and cracking.

After a few moments I move on. Got to keep going, got to get to the end of the road. I’m not exactly sure where that is, somewhere in the hills, but I know it’s better than where I came from. The memories of those final few days still haunt me.

With each step the canteen at my hip bumps. There’s a small bruise now, just to remind me of its presence, letting me know it’s still there. It’s lighter now, I’ve kept on without a drink all day. Knowing that the last warm mouthful is all I have. I can’t ignore the thirst any longer, my mouth feels like it’s full of the fluff I see blowing across the road. Who knows, perhaps it is. The water is hot, it has the metal tang of the canteen, but it’s bliss. I shake the last drops onto my parched tongue and it’s done.

One foot in front of the other, that’s all I can do. If I don’t find water in the next day, well, I guess…

The night offers some respite from the heat. Gradually turning to cold. For lack of any other option, I lie on the still warm road and sleep. My awareness pulled back from the vastness of the prairie, to the small circle around where I lie.

The sun rises quickly, the heat cooking off the tarmac once more. I keep moving, knowing if I don’t find water, this could be my last day.

Hours later something breaks the unending shimmer ahead. A slight bump beside the road. With each pace it grows larger, taller, wider. Still the same brown-grey as everything else, the same as the dust caking my boots, my trousers, my shirt, my skin. But it’s something different, something other than the flat barren expanse. What seems like an eternity later, although in this heat it could be hours or just a few minutes, the lump becomes rocks. They jut from the cracked earth, with the promise of shade, some respite from the blistering sun.

As I get closer, a faint sound lifts from the almost complete silence of this place. Other than the sound of my feet, or the beat of my heart throbbing in my ears, it’s the first sound I’ve heard in days. In this heat not a bird cries or an insect chirps. But there it is again, a slight rushing tinkle, could it be? I break into a stumbling run, but the heat and thirst stop me after only a few paces, and I go back to my shambling shuffle, one foot in front of the other. But there it is, not much, a slight trickle from the rocks, spilling across the dust. Running only a few feet before disappearing into a shallow depression. A circle of water not much larger than my hat. I don’t care. I lie flat in the dirt, face down in the cool water and drink my fill. I drink until my belly aches and I feel sick. I fill my canteen and sit in the shade of the rocks, sipping more of the glorious water.

Eventually, I’ll have to move, but for now I just sit and watch the sun slowly sink toward the horizon. As the day cools, I lever myself up from the rocks, my muscles protesting at every movement, and shuffle back to the warmth of the road. I curl up, looking back at the rocks. From this angle I can see something behind them, jutting out and off to one side. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I force my aching muscles to move once more.

It’s a shack, of sorts. Not much more than a few sheets of rusted corrugate, wedged in between the rocks. But signs that someone was once here. I squeeze through the door, although that is a pretty grand description of the gap between two sheets that serves as the entrance. It’s dark inside, in the gathering dusk. There’s nothing, just a dirt floor and tin walls. No, not nothing. In the back there is a row of something, set on what is part shelf, part beam. Tins, rusted and dented but tins. The promise of food, something to fill the never-ending ache inside me. My mouth begins to water at the thought. No labels, just rusty spotted metal. I pick one up, leaving a circle of rust on the wood. The circles continue along the beam, a testament of how much food there once was.

I finger the ring pull on the top, whispering a silent prayer of thanks that I don’t need an opener. I remember a video, from the time before, of how to open a tin with a rock, but the details are lost, like so much of my former life. Careful, I think, I prise up the ring, if I snap it now, I’m back to bashing it with a rock.

Stewing steak maybe, some sort of miscellaneous brown meat. Who cares, it’s food. After days of nothing, it’s like the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Who knows, perhaps it is? As I grab another can, my stomach rebels and I dash outside. I heave but keep my mouth shut tight, swallowing it back down. Don’t waste anything. Who knows where my next meal is coming from. Eventually the urge subsides and I curl up, trembling against the back wall of the shack.

The morning heats up, the shack quickly becoming an oven. Grabbing another tin, I step out into the blazing light. Popping the can, I realise the brown meat, that only a few hours before seemed like a meal fit for a king, was in fact dog food. But food is food, so I finish it all, scraping the last remnants from the tin with a stick.

Behind the shack is a pile of empty tins. As I add mine to it, I notice some of them still have remnants of food, slightly sticky. Someone was here only a few days before. Hope rises in my chest, there is someone else moving through this endless landscape.

A can in each hand, my canteen full and once more bumping against my hip. I head down the road. My pace quicker than before. Partly from the food and water, but mainly the hope that I might find someone else, another human, to break this monotony.

Up ahead, there is something on the road. Just a smudge at first. Then resolving into an arrow. An arrow, made of small stones, pointing left. My eyes follow it and find footprints in the dirt, heading away from the road. Not just one set, but several, overlaid over each other. Not just a person then, but people. I can’t tell how many. All the prints seem to be the same size, maybe a dozen pairs. Who knows? Who cares?

I follow them away from the road for the rest of the day. Eating a can of dog food as the sun sets.

The night is cold, tucked between the sharp grasses, away from the tarmac.

I eat the last of my dog food as the sun rises, eager to get going, to warm up. Finding the shack seems like an eternity ago. It’s hard to believe it was only yesterday. Or was it? I shake my canteen, half full; it must have been yesterday. It’s so hard to remember and keep it all straight in my head. I can’t really remember much before the shack, just the road. One foot in front of the other.

Occasionally, I pass discarded tins. Some have sticky food left in them, some are dry and dusty. I don’t know what that means. Was it two groups of people, or one person after another. My head is too fuzzy to work it out. So, I keep on, head down, my footprints joining those from before.

I see something ahead, a black line on the horizon, gradually getting closer. The footprints head straight for it. Another road, someone must have known where they were going, heading off, into the blank nothingness of the prairie, to find this road. Stepping up onto the hot tarmac once again, I look left and right, about twenty paces to my right is an arrow, made of small stones, pointing back the way I’ve just come.

Realisation washes over me. A sick feeling settling in my guts. I’ve been walking in circles. A day of food and water wasted. I sink to the ground, curling into a ball, as the night draws in over me.

The next morning dawns, just as every other in this boiling hell hole. Looking down the road, there’s no point in heading back. I’ve been there. There’s nothing for me in that direction, nothing but more road, and… I can’t remember anything else, just road and trudging, one foot in front of the other.

I turn my back on the blank horizon and wearily set off again. Towards the promise of the distant hills. The ache in my legs a constant reminder of how far I have already come. My canteen bumps against my hip, down to the last warm mouthful, so I save it. You never know when you’re going to find water in a place like this.

As the sun reaches its peak, a set of foot prints appear in the dust at the side of the road. Someone must have walked here since the last rains, whenever they were.

Up ahead there’s something in the road, stretching from one side to the other. For the first time in what seems like forever, my pace quickens. Eager to see something different, something to break the monotony. But it’s just a crack. Thick, as wide as my arm, across half the road, then spidering out into a million different cracks across the other side. I twist my head. It looks a bit like a weird tree. One of those funny looking ones they have in Africa, a Bao…Bao something… A Baobab.