Reklaw and Azar - The Story of a Post Apocalyptic Writer and Publisher

“Hurry up, we ain’t got all day” spoke Reklaw in a hushed tone as Azar scrambled to search for a rock. 

“Tryn’ my best here you old fool,” Azar retorted as the fading daylight made it difficult for him to find a rock large enough, throwable enough, to kill the hare they’d been stalking for the last few hours.

Reklaw spat contemptuously, “Next time, maybe you should make more arrows before we go out on a hunt, you lazy bastard.”

“Fucking old fool can’t shoot for shit and wants me to make more arrows,” Azar muttered under his breath, exasperated and bone-tired. 

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Reklaw and Azar live in a sprawling wasteland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, in a time after the mysterious drones and the radiation fried almost everything and mutated most of what lived. 

Like many others, they survived on a few remaining fruit trees and the occasional game or rodent they could trap or hunt - all of which were in extremely short supply as the days went by. 

They hated each others’ guts, one could even venture to say that they were mortal enemies, but theirs was a friendship of convenience. 

Most of the folks that lived in the area lived, hunted, and searched for food in parties of 2 or 3 members. Keeping out of radiation zones and avoiding mutated snakes was crucial for survival. Reklaw was old and could barely carry his weight around, and with his waning eyesight, no one wanted to have anything to do with the old grouch anymore.

Azar lacked the wisdom Reklaw had, where to find game or where they might still find berries or fruit, how to navigate the dangers of the wasteland, and find their way back to their cave even after dark. But what Azar lacked in sagacity, he made up for it with sheer strength and his size; heavily built and standing at over 6.5 feet, he looked like a towering giant next to the small and stooped Reklaw. 

On the surface, it looked like Azar had chosen Reklaw as his cave-mate because Reklaw was wise and knew his way around even in the dark, knew how to avoid the snakes and the ditches, and stay alive; but that wasn’t the case, at least not entirely. 

Azar wanted something else, something deeper. He loved that Reklaw was a storyteller and looked forward to their supper by the firelight every evening, in their cave, after which  — if he was in the mood — Reklaw would usually tell Azar an interesting story and Azar would listen with captivated interest, eyes glinting like a child listening to a bedtime story.

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‘Swoosh’ the rock flew by Reklaw’s ear, almost striking him. 

“Careful boy, are you trying to kill me?” Reklaw turned back to face Azar, stunned. 

“That wouldn’t be so hard if I tried,” Azar grinned smugly and went on before Reklaw could interrupt, “Looks like we got supper.”

Reklaw turned around to see the hare lying in what looked like a pool of blood, and couldn’t help but grin himself at the tantalizing thought of a delicious meal. 

That night, once they’d skinned, roasted, and hungrily devoured the hare, Azar reclined against the wall of their cave as Reklaw told him a story about a King and his wise Vizier. 

Staring at old Reklaw through a film of fire and smoke, a fascinating thought occurred to Azar.

“What if I could find a way to write, and exchange these stories for food?” he thought, too scared to share this inchoate idea with grumpy old Reklaw just yet.

Sure enough, most of the written language was lost and they spoke in a simplified pidgin, but they still had symbols and some rudimentary writing, to record exchanges at the makeshift market and other useful stuff.

He would give it a try, thought Azar. 

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The next day, Azar found a piece of leather and etched the shortest story Reklaw ever told him on it with the help of a sharpened bone; a simple fable about a boy who tricks his townspeople into believing a wolf was attacking his flock, only to be left helpless when the wolf actually came.

He made his way to the dusty old market, a few shabby tents here and there selling beans, berries, meat, clothing, and whatever salvageable item anyone had found and traded off that day. 

“This here is a story,” said Azar, hesitantly. 

“A what now?” squinted the trader at the skin of leather Azar was holding

“A story, a written story, you know like how they used to have on paper.. And uh.. books” 

“Uh? you can get these shoes in exchange for the hide” the trader looked confused.

“No, a story, look at this” Azar shoved it into his face.

Curious to understand, the trader peered at the words as they formed a crude image in his mind. “Oh, that’s. That’s new” he finally admitted.

“Told you,” Azar made no attempt to disguise his happiness. His plan had worked. 

They’d never have to hunt another day. Old Reklaw wasn’t entirely useless after all, he thought. 

“Seeing as this ain’t just hide nemore, I could give you some meat and those old shoes in exchange, fair trade?” the trader asked, eyeing Azar.

“Sounds good,” said Azar cheerfully.

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Azar made his way back to their cave, walking hastily, excited to share his brilliant idea with Reklaw. 

He was certain that Reklaw would dismiss it with a wave of his hand at first, but when he’d show him the meat and the shoes he’d gotten from the market, tell him that the idea had worked, then the old sorehead would buy-in. 

“That old grouch is going to be happier than he’s ever been a day in his life,” thought Azar, “Let’s see who he calls dumb anymore.” 

Finally arriving at the cave, he put away the meat and shoes under a rock to surprise Reklaw. He found Reklaw to fast asleep and thought it best not to wake the old man. Reklaw was — Azar had learned from experience — at his worst mood when woken from sleep. 

Patiently, Azar waited. 

They had time, as they didn’t need to hunt for today.

When dusk approached and Reklaw still didn’t wake up, Azar squeezed his arm. 

No response.

Azar got closer and grabbed both shoulders, shaking Reklaw.

“Wake up old man, you’ve been sleeping all day.”

No answer.

And then, Azar placed a hand on Reklaw’s chest, to discover that his old friend’s heart was beating no more. 

Dazed, he sat back, eyes closed, as an ocean of tears welled inside them and streamed down his cheeks, wiping all trace of happiness from earlier that day. 

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Note from the author:

This is the first story I’ve ever written, so I guess it’s going to suck pretty bad. But I guess I had to start somewhere.

Reklaw and Azar are my own and my friend’s name spelled backward.

I’m Raza and my friend is Jay Walker.

This story is dedicated to Jay Walker, my friend who kept nagging me to write my first story and believed that I could! 

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