Saint Jake – Pilgrims

The old woman shuffled toward the attendant, her pilgrim’s passport in her palsied hand.

“Welcome to the Shrine of Saint Jake,” the attendant said in a bored voice, and flipped open her passport so that he could stamp it with the Mark of the Shrine. He stamped hundreds of these every day, week in and week out, and as great an honor as it was to attend the Shrine, it was hard to keep one’s devotion at peak pitch all the time.

The first page was full, so he flipped to the next page. Then the next. A small crease appeared between his brows, and he flipped to the last page. There was only one space left in the lower right corner. He flipped back to the beginning and examined the pages more carefully.

He’d never seen some of these stamps. His eyes grew wide as he slowly realized she had done the full Pilgrim’s Route, following Saint Jake’s route from the Door to Nowhere, to the Blue Lady’s Garden, to the Bank of the Damned, to the Shrine here on the shores overlooking the submerged ruins of the Great Apple, where Saint Jake had finally faced and defeated all twelve Dragonlords in the Arena of Fate that lay beneath the waters in the heart of the ruined city. His eyes, full of wonder, rose to meet the old woman’s.

“You must be very devout,” he said.

She smiled.

“I knew him.”

The attendant nearly dropped the passport.

“You… you knew him?” He looked at her more closely. Yes, she was old enough — it was possible, however unlikely.

“Yes. We met walking the old highway. I was a young girl in the company of my brothers, and we all walked together for a day. I heard the Tale of Eris from his own lips as we walked. He had just decided to seek out the Blue Lady, and I wanted to join him on his quest, but he told me he had to go alone. That he had amends to make before he met her.”

The attendant slowly turned the passport back to the first page, and his hand trembled. Her name was there on the first page.

“You are Miranda.” His voice was a whisper.

The old woman smiled.

“I am.”

The tale of the star-crossed but undying love of Jake and Miranda was known to every child. Overcome, the attendant sank to his knees.

“There, there, young man, there’s no need for that. I haven’t that many hours left in this world, and I’d hate to have them run out while I’m waiting for you to put the last stamp in my book. Be mellow.”

“Be mellow,” the attendant murmured, and then rose to his feet and carefully, reverently placed the Mark of the Shrine in the exact center of the last space in the book.

“May I assist you to the Shrine, my lady?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d rather like that.”

He took her arm and slowly led her to the Shrine, and the final resting place of Saint Jake.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – In Time of War

Jake never saw the men who captured him.

He’d come this far north to try to find the fabled Big Apple. He wanted to see it before it collapsed into rubble. Between the ocean level rise and the fierce Autumn hurricanes, the great coastal cities of the past were vanishing like sand castles on a beach, and he thought he ought to pay tribute to them before they were gone.

Or before he got too old to make the trip. He’d been thinking that this might be his last trip on the Road. He was over sixty, now, and a lifetime of walking had done his knees no favors. It was probably time to settle down.

He’d been walking up a tree-shaded highway, and then he was suddenly here, hands tied behind his back, head pounding with a headache like he’d never had before, clothes dripping wet from the cold water that had been thrown in his face. He coughed and shook his head to clear his eyes.

It was a room dimly-lit by a single oil lamp on a rough, stained table. Two men in worn army fatigues stood in front of him, one with a bucket that he set carefully on the ground, upside down. The other saw that Jake was awake, and walked past Jake. He heard a door open behind him.

Be mellow.

It was harder than usual to be mellow. This was not a good situation. Jake had heard tell of a vicious war brewing between the Yanks and the Grays in this part of the country. He’d given it wide berth to the west, expecting to pass by the troubles and approach the Apple from the north. Seemed he hadn’t gone far north enough. Or maybe the battleground had moved.

He heard quick footsteps behind him. A short, muscular man strode into view, then turned and sat on the overturned bucket. His head was bald or shaved close; his face was broad and fleshy, marred by a deep scar that ran from his right eyebrow to his lip. His right eye socket was empty. His expression spoke of disgust and boredom.

He looked so much like Captain Renfrew from the Keep of the Northern Dragon Waste, that Jake nodded to him without thinking and murmured, “Captain.”

The other man grew very still.

“Should I know you?” the bald man said, his one eye sharp with sudden interest.

“Jake, sir.”

The one eye blinked, and the man took a quick breath, then held it.

“Jake? You claim to the Jake?”

“I’m the only Jake I’ve met in my travels, sir.” Which wasn’t exactly true. But he was the only Jake he’d met who was anywhere close to his age. Though he’d met an uncanny number of children with that name.

A slow smile spread across the man’s face, pulling at the scar. It was not a pleasant smile, but a cruel one.

“The Jake who has inspired a thousand rebels, ten thousand thieves, and a hundred-thousand discontented citizens of the Lawful Nation of the Yewsay. The Jake who is wanted for crimes of propaganda and treason. The Jake who has a gold price on his head. The Jake who will make me a full Commander, if you are — indeed — who you say you are.”

Be mellow. God help me, be mellow.

Jake had been in a few serious scrapes before, but he’d always been able to talk his way out of them. Nothing like this, though. He knew there were times to keep his mouth shut. If ever there was such at time, it was now. He turned his mind to the ignominious defeat of Captain Renfrew in the Dragon Wastes, trying to run from rabid chipmunks with his pants around his ankles, and stared back at the bald man with a level gaze and a faint smile, though his guts felt like water. The silence stretched out.

“Well,” said the bald man at last, “we shall have to see if you are who you say you are.”

He stood and spoke to the soldier who still stood behind him.

“We won’t be needing that just yet,” he said, gesturing to the bucket. “Take this prisoner to the VIP accommodations, and make sure you don’t damage him. Then see if you can find Vince. Vince will get the truth out of this bastard. And if he IS the Jake….” He pulled a toothy grin, then strode out.

The soldier dragged Jake to his feet, then marched him down a series of concrete hallways to a cell with a door made of steel bars. The bars looked familiar, and Jake had a sudden memory of his youth, visiting a bank with his mother. They were in an old-world bank.

The soldier untied Jake and pushed him into the dark room beyond the steel bars, then pushed the gate shut. He had to put his weight against it to get it to close, but it closed with a mechanical click that sounded complete, and final. Then the soldier left, presumably to fetch Vince.

Jake sat on the floor. There was a faint, flickering light that filtered through the door, doubtless from some candle or lantern down one of the corridors. The floor was smooth and cold. He remembered the floor in the bank, some shiny black stone, polished until you could see your reflection in it. Banks had been made to keep money safe for the bankers, as he recalled, so they were like fortresses. There would be no escape from here.

Jake’s hands sought his pockets, and he realized they hadn’t searched him at all. He still had his pouch of Tangerine Dream, his pipe, and his flint. He set about the comforting ritual, hands working easily and automatically in the dark. Soon, the familiar musky scent filled the close confines of his cell, and he let his terrified mind rest. Time passed without markers.

A sudden commotion in the hallway pulled Jake out of his mellowness. Running feet. Dancing light that grew brighter. Shouting.

The bald man was suddenly at the bars, surrounded by men in fatigues, his face stretched in a grimace that his scar made into a leer. He was shouting for someone to get the damn door open. There was a muted bell-like sound followed by a whickering like a whole swarm of flying insects, and then there was blood all over the steel bars as soldiers fell. The bald man, showing sudden bone-white patches on his skull, shrieked and ran down a corridor into darkness.

Jake’s guard appeared at the door, produced a key, and then pulled the door open. A small group of people bearing torches surged into the cell, and then stopped to stare at Jake, still seated on the floor.

Jake blinked at them.

At last, he took a deep breath, and said, “Be mellow.”

“Be mellow,” they chanted back in unison. Then one stepped forward.

“Jake, begging your pardon, but we have to go, and quickly. We’re here to rescue you. Will you come?”

“Fuckin’ A,” Jake muttered and put out a hand.

The next hour was a blur of running and hiding. Two of the men carried heavy backpacks and long tubes with a grip and a trigger. They were only used once, to get through the guarded main gate of the compound. Standing so near, Jake could hear the preliminary high-pitched whine, and then the bell-like sound of the discharge, as hundreds of sharpened metal slivers were propelled out the muzzle at just under supersonic speed, to flay anything in their path.

They’ve build their own fleschette rifles. Just like the one I used against the Dragonlords. Only bigger. Clumsier. Real.

They eventually reached a flat cart on steel wheels with what looked like an old see-saw on it. Jake was glad to stop running. His lungs burned.

The men jumped onto the cart and pulled Jake aboard, then two of them began pumping the two ends of the see-saw. The cart began to move, and quickly built up speed.

Jake sat with the wind in his face as a late crescent moon rose in the sky and the horizon in front of them turned gray, then pink. The men took turns pumping the handles, and would not allow Jake to take a turn, but instead passed him strips of salted meat and a leather skin filled with a surprisingly good beer. There was no conversation, and all of the men were watchful and tense as the light grew.

In mid-morning, the men suddenly relaxed and allowed the cart to slow. One of them called out a long string of nonsense syllables, and there was an answering cry from the woods around them. They drifted to a slow halt. A moment later, they were surrounded by people, including women and children.

A tall, thin man in a clean uniform pushed through the crowd. His face was as sour as a wedge of lemon.

“What in Hell’s name is going on here?” he shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here. What’s gone wrong?”

“Nothing, sir!” It was the soldier who had taken Jake to his cell. “Something has gone right.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” the thin man snapped. “Report, damn you.”

“It’s Jake, sir. We found Jake. The Yanks had him. We rescued him.”

A dozen emotions chased themselves across the officer’s face. Disbelief. Astonishment. Concern. Horror. Anger. Disbelief again. He scanned the passengers on the cart, and his eyes locked on Jake. Disbelief tinged with anger warred with something in his expression that looked like hope.

“Is it true?” he asked Jake. “Are you Jake? If you’re lying, God help you.”

Instead of answering, Jake rooted through his pockets, and pulled out the last of his Tangerine Dream and his pipe. He carefully packed it, lit it with his flint, and then extended it toward the officer, stem-first.

“Be mellow,” he said.

The crowd, grown silent, breathed a great sigh in reply, “Be mellow.”

The officer took the offered pipe with fingers that trembled, and there were tears in his eyes. “Be mellow,” he whispered, and took a long pull on the pipe.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – The Blue Lady

There was still a path under his feet, but it was overgrown with rank grass, and the ground was turning soggy. The air was thick, almost unbreathable. Tall, leggy trees grew sparsely out of a sea of chest-high bushes on either side of the path that stretched as far as he could see. Insects of some sort ratcheted in a continuous roar of sound that filled the air in all directions, muted slightly, perhaps, by the cloud of silent biting insects that surrounded him like a churning fog.

“Aiiieeeee!” Jake yelled and waved his arms, uncharacteristically un-mellow.

Something large splashed nearby. The roar of insects, and the voracious cloud around him, continued without pause or notice.

Jake turned in the direction of the splash. He’d heard of the Giant Caimans that were said to guard the Blue Lady’s secret garden — some kind of prehistoric reptile, they said, bigger than any ordinary alligator or crocodile, fierce, aggressive, and equipped with poisonous fangs. Completely loyal to the Lady and obedient to her voice.

Though he wasn’t fond of the idea of dying in the jaws of such a creature, he was down in this pest-ridden swamp to search for the Blue Lady, and he figured he’d have to face one of the beasts sooner or later. Between the heat and the bugbites, sooner would be much better than later.

The bushes were too thick to see through. He could not even guess where the water lay: one step away, or a hundred.

Jake sighed, turned, and trudged onward. He was already through a quarter of the water in his skin, and had no idea how much further this path went. The adults in the last village he’d been through had turned away when he’d mentioned the Lady, but one of the children had finally set him on this path, and assured him that you could get there in half a day.

It was mid-afternoon when he at last came to the end of the path. The trees had grown tall and dense, and though the sun was still high, he walked in green twilight. The path made a sharp turn, dipped slightly, and then opened into a clearing.

Jake stopped walking, struck still by awe.

The clearing was ringed by the tall trees, which formed a dense canopy overhead that continued to filter the sunlight to a deep green; but the sun cut bright, slanted shafts of golden light through gaps in the canopy, reflecting sparkling light off the mix of dust, flying insects, and humidity in the air. As he watched, faint breezes in the leaves high above caused the shafts of light to dance.

The sound of insects was muted here, and he could at last hear a faint trickle of water: at the center of the clearing stood a ring of carefully-fitted, grouted stones, enclosing a small pool of water fed by an artesian spring that bubbled up from its center, which then overflowed and vanished into the thick mat of mossy growth that covered the floor of the clearing. The stones around the pool were almost hidden by brightly-colored scraps of cloth, shiny man-made metallic objects, woven bundles of sticks decorated with feathers, and old photographs. A cleared path through the offerings allowed access to the pool.

A low mound rose behind the pool, smooth and earth-colored.

Jake cautiously entered the clearing. He saw no movement, save the slow bubbling of the pool. He approached the pool, and tasted the water. It was clean, fresh, and cool, though it had an odd flavor — slightly sweet and sharp, like a fruit or blossom, with a faint hint of not-unpleasant bitterness.

He breathed a sigh of relief. His water was almost gone, despite his attempts to ration it, and he’d been worrying for the last two hours how he would make it back out of this jungle. He drank his fill from the pool, and then filled his water bag.

There was nothing else in the clearing but the pool with its ring of offerings, and the mound. He rose and circled the mound, slowly.

It appeared to be made of clay, something like stucco. It was low, a little more than chest-high to Jake, and perhaps ten feet in diameter. A ring of small holes encircled the mound about halfway up the sides, each overhung with a lip that would keep rainwater from draining into the hole.

On the back side he found a small, round door, painted bright blue.

“Hello!” Jake called. Only the endless insect ratcheting and the faint burbling of the spring answered.

He knocked on the door, and then stood back, respectfully. Nothing happened.

Jake sat down, rolled himself a joint, and considered his options.

This was clearly a local shrine of some sort, and the blue door suggested that the child had been right — this was a shrine to the Blue Lady. But it didn’t seem at all like the Garden he’d been hearing about. He looked up at the canopy, and was surprised to see the shafts of sunlight cutting a shallow angle through the tops of the trees, the day nearly spent. Somehow, the rest of the afternoon had slipped away without his noticing.

Jake didn’t know much about jungles, but he knew he didn’t want to sleep on the open ground — that was just an invitation to become dinner. He felt suddenly certain that the mound was for travelers, exactly like himself. Without much thought, he stood, opened the blue door, and then crouched and wormed his way into the mound, not even thinking about anything that might already be inside. He pulled the door shut behind him.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. There was just enough light slipping in through the ring of holes to see that the interior of the mound was clean and featureless, and unoccupied by anyone or anything else. The was a sharp, bitter smell in the air that reminded him briefly of antiseptic from the old world he’d grown up in. Which perhaps explained the lack of denizens: someone maintained this space, kept it clean and clear. His eyes started to droop — it had been a long day.

He was jolted back to awareness by the sound of singing, outside the mound: a woman’s voice, clear and beautiful, singing a sweet melody. He could not make out the words.

There was more light inside the mound now, bright, clear daylight coming through the ring of holes, and he could see that the inside walls were painted in bright colors. A yellow sun hung in a blue sky, surrounded by stars, facing a shining full moon. A mountain rose to one side; blue sea on the other, edged by white sand. A ring of toothy monstrosities surrounded him, frighteningly realistic.

Jake admired the painter’s skill for a moment, then pushed the door open and crawled out.

He stood in the middle of a lawn of short green grass. A cool sea-breeze blew in his face, from across the ocean that spread before him all the way to the horizon, surf rolling in languidly, a bright morning sun already high in a clear blue sky. He turned slowly to face the tall, green mountain that rose behind him.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and turned to look. It was a tall woman with raven-dark hair braided tightly in corn-rows and piled high on her head. Her clothing was a simple robe of clean white fabric that draped in folds. The most startling thing about her, of course, was that her skin was blue. Not the mottled purplish blue of a drowning man, or the gray-blue of someone with chronic metal poisoning, but clear, unblemished blue, a little darker than the sky, but lighter than the sea.

Jake went to one knee. “My Lady,” he said.

She laughed, and her voice confirmed that she was the singer he had heard earlier.

“Rise, Jake. None that I allow on my island need bend a knee.”

“So you are real, after all.”

She smiled, and did not answer.

“But… how…?”

“No, Jake. Your time here is precious, and you should not waste it on unimportant questions. Ask me what you came to ask.”

Now that he’d come to it, Jake found himself suddenly speechless. Tears sprang to his eyes. The Lady’s eyes showed sympathy, and she continued to smile at him.

“Do I have a purpose?” Jake blurted out.

“Yes,” the Lady said.

“Then what is it?” Jake’s voice shook, his face twisted in an agony of pleading and anger.

Her smile faded, replaced by a kind of sadness. “I cannot tell you.”

“Why not? Because that’s for me to discover?” His voice dripped sarcasm.

The Lady’s sad expression did not change. “I cannot tell you, because if I do, the knowledge will prevent you from fulfilling your purpose. I can only say that you have a purpose. And I think I can tell you this much as well: it is an important purpose.”

Jake’s anger broke like a wave against the shore, and rolled away. He sat, suddenly, shoulders drooping.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

The Lady’s smile returned, and she laughed, lightly. “That question I can answer, Jake. You are supposed to do exactly what you are doing. Travel where you wish to travel. Do what you wish to do. Walk when you are restless, sleep when you are tired, eat when you are hungry. Settle down somewhere when and if it suits you.”

“But how does that…?”

“Shh,” the Lady said, putting her finger to her lips. “It is my turn to ask a question of you.”

Jake braced himself. “Okay.”

“Are you still carrying any Purple Haze?”

Jake blinked. “Um, no. But I have Tangerine Dream.”

“Would you mind sharing?”

Jake stared at her for a full thirty seconds. Then his wits found him, and he reached into his pocket. The Lady sat on the ground next to him while he packed his pipe for her.

“Ahh…” she said, slowly exhaling after taking a deep draught of the fragrant smoke. “Thank you. It’s embarrassing to have to ask. But my visitors have started ‘purifying’ themselves before they come. Empty pockets, empty minds, nothing to share but their ‘spiritual purity.’ It’s a crying shame.”

They sat in companionable silence. Jake’s eyes began to droop.

“Be mellow, Jake,” the Lady said, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

Jake woke, feeling well-rested, with green light filtering through the holes in the mound. He could just make out crude images painted on the inside walls of the structure: a sun, a moon, a seacoast, a mountain. Some kind of toothy creatures. It was far too dark to distinguish colors, almost too dark to see the images at all. He sat up and pushed the door open into the endless insect racket and the soft bubbling of the pool. The light suggested that it was shortly after dawn, but the heat was already building.

Jake drank at the fountain, and then set out on the path back to the world he knew.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – Hippies

Jake leaned back from the table with a sigh of contentment. He used the cloth napkin they had given him to make sure his beard was tidy. It was beginning to show some gray, now, though his hair remained dark.

“I cannot tell you, ma’am, when I’ve last eaten so well,” he said.

All four sets of eyes were fixed on him. Pride gleamed in the farmer’s wife’s eyes at his compliment. Her husband’s eyes were narrowed, and her children’s were wide.

“Don’t normally invite travelers into our home,” the farmer said.

“Jonathan!” his wife scolded. “This is Jake.”

Says he’s Jake,” the farmer said. His wife’s cheeks flared bright red, and she glared at her husband.

“Jake is my name, sir,” Jake said.

“Aye, but are ye the Jake my wife seems to think you are? The one that battled two Dragonlords in the Forest of Garnacha?”

Jake paused. He didn’t often tell that story. It was one of the darker tales with a sad ending, and it usually left his listeners distressed.

“The Forest of Garnacha is a depressing place,” Jake said. “It’s an old forest, ancient, and full of spiders and death beetles and deadfall. You can’t see where you’re putting your feet, and sometimes you step on things that… squish.”

The children — a boy and a girl — both squealed.

Halfway through the story, the farmer leaned back and lit his pipe. He offered Jake a pinch of weed, and Jake gratefully accepted. He finished the story, which put tears in the farmwife’s eyes, and then told the story about tricking the Dragonlord Opus out of his entire treasure, which had them all laughing out loud.

As his wife took the children to put them to bed, and the farmer clapped Jake on the shoulder with a smile.

“I can’t say I believe a word you said, young man,” he said, “but that was the best storytelling I’ve heard. If you ain’t the Jake, you might as well be. You’re welcome in this house any time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jake replied.

“Then I’ll bid you good night. You’ll be comfortable in the barn?”

“Yes, sir. Been on the road most of my life. I don’t think I’d be comfortable sleeping in a house. The barn will be a luxury.”

“Breakfast is sharp at sunrise. And maybe you can help me with the windmill, afore ye go out on the road again. It’s two more weeks until the harvest workers come through, and I need someone on the ground who can lift.”

“Be happy to help, sir.”

“Aye. Well, then, good night.”

After a hearty farm breakfast at dawn, Jake went out with the farmer to fix the windmill that pulled up water from the well for the animals.

When the farmer climbed down from the windmill tower, Jake pointed to a row of metal posts with solar panels on top.

“How come you don’t use those?” he asked.

The farmer glanced at the row of panels and snorted.

“Them things? I ain’t had time to pull ‘em down. They’re useless.”


“Among other things. Hailstorm a few years back broke three of ‘em. Ijits that built ‘em left no way to get up there to fix ‘em. Installed with a cherry-picker. Gasoline-powered. Ain’t seen one in years, now. Can’t afford the parts to fix ‘em, even if I built a big enough ladder to get up there. Plus, batteries is all fried. Lightning storm.”

“Who put them up?”

The farmer laughed. “Bunch o’ hippies, come out of the city. Set up some kind of homestead out here, hopin’ to ride out the end of the world. Have to admit, they had some nice ideas. Got more food out of an acre than I can get out of four, and they claimed it didn’t wear out the soil.”

Jake scratched his beard. “So what happened to them?”

The farmer spat, to ward off ill luck.

“City used to end about a mile from here. Supermarkets shut down one summer — some kind of gasoline crisis, they said — and word got out that the hippies had food. Thousands of people came out, raided the place, stripped it bare. Would’a taken the solar panels, if they could’a got to ‘em. Would’a raided my land, too, if it wasn’t off-season and the fields fallow. Don’t think any of them hippie kids got hurt, but they left and didn’t come back. I took over the land a couple years later.”

“Aren’t you worried they’ll do that again? To you?”

The farmer stared in the direction of the city for a while.

“Nah,” he said at last. “Things is different, now. Hippies were into some kind of ‘self-sufficiency’ deal. Raisin’ food and then keepin’ it for themselves so’s they could survive the troubles. I’m part of this community — I got no use for most of what I raise, and it goes to market every few days in harvest season. Just like all the other farmers around here. Ain’t no point in comin’ all the way out here to steal stuff I already sent into town. Plus, sheriff’s a lot more sensitive to our needs than he used to be. Town raids our farm, or our market wagons, lots of people go hungry. Sheriff won’t stand for that.”

Jake nodded slowly.

“No interest in stayin’ on as a farmhand?” the farmer asked. “Couldn’t offer you no pay, but you’d not go hungry a day in your life.”

Jake stared at the solar panels and thought of his old X-box Infinity. He thought about always having a full stomach, and a place to stay every night. He thought about maybe taking a wife, and raising children.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Your offer’s much appreciated, sir. But it’s not in my nature to stay put.”

“Well, you’re honest if nothing else, Jake. Makes me want to believe your wild stories.”

“I’ve seen these things with my own eyes, sir,” Jake said.

On a video game console, some part of his mind offered up. But those memories were fading, and the first-person tales he told had taken on the color of life. Sometimes, it was almost as if he had been there.

The farmer stared at him in silence.

“Well, good luck to you,” he said at last.

Jake nodded, then turned and walked away.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – Survivalist

The razor-wire fence was mostly rust. A sign advised that trespassers would be shot without warning. Jake was inclined to respect such warnings, but he needed water pretty desperately, and he hadn’t seen any other habitation for miles. So he stepped through the gap where the fence had long ago rusted through and “sprung,” put both hands in the air, and shouted “Just visiting,” every few steps.

He spotted an old, rusty pump-handle in the middle of a small dip in the ground. He’d have missed the bunker entirely, camouflaged and dug into the hill, had the door not been ajar. A desiccated hand clutched the ground outside through the slit-like opening, picked clean by birds of all but a few leathery scraps of skin.

Jake carefully pulled the door wide. The owner of the hand lay just inside, face-down, dressed in Army camo fatigues. There was no smell — the man had been dead for a long time, and the dry air had sucked all the moisture out of the remains. This part of the West had become a dry, barren land, and any scavengers big enough to scatter the bones were long-gone.

Tatters of a dark-stained bandage around the extended hand told the story: he’d likely died of blood poisoning, from a cut. Dragged himself out of bed in a fever to catch a final glimpse of sky before he died. Hadn’t quite made it.

Jake returned to the pump and worked the handle until he was rewarded by resistance. After a few more strokes, clear water cascaded from the spout, and after tasting it, he drank his fill and then filled his water bag.

He left the body and the bunker alone. No point in disturbing the spirits of the dead. Besides, there was likely nothing in the bunker that he wanted. Guns and explosives, for sure — not something he wanted to be caught on the road with. Canned food, but after all these years, it was anyone’s guess if it was fit to eat.

But the real issue was booby-traps. Guys who’d built these sorts of places were usually not quite right in the head: like this fellow, building his razor-wire fence right out to the road, advertising there was something worth protecting to any passersby. Jake had heard of survivalists who’d blown themselves up because they’d booby-trapped the food, then forgotten to disarm it one morning before breakfast. There were people who knew how to get stuff out of these places, and made good trade selling it. Good luck to them.

He turned and walked back toward the road, whistling.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – Romance

Miranda stared at Jake in perplexity.

“Florida?” she said. “Where’s that?”

“Far to the East, and to the South,” Jake replied. “All the way to the other ocean.”

“Why on earth do you want to go there?”

Jake thought about the question as they walked the empty freeway. The idea of walking to Florida hadn’t crossed his mind until the moment he’d said it. He turned the idea over in his mind a few times as they walked.

He’d filled out in the decade since his twenty-first birthday. Towns were on a more substantial footing these days, and had discovered that travelers were a valuable source of news, and a dangerous source of plagues if you let them die of hunger on your doorstep. Most communities had returned to a staple diet, which could be produced cheaply enough to give away food to wanderers, so long as they were inclined to move on after a night or two.

“I want to see the Blue Lady,” Jake said at last.

Miranda, today’s walking companion along with Brood and Scowl — those were the names he’d given them, since they’d not spoken a word since he’d joined them — looked up at him with wide eyes.

“The Blue Lady? Do you think she’s real?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “That’s what I want to find out.”

Miranda shuddered. “If she’s real, then so is Bloody Mary. I sure wouldn’t want to meet her.”

“Maybe so. But if the Blue Lady is real, I think she’s worth the risk.”

“You want to join her army of angels?”

“If she’ll have me.”

Miranda’s eyes glowed. “Tell me the story about the Dungeons of Thoom. Where you met your first Dragonlord.”

Jake smiled. He’d been telling tales about his battles with the Dragonlords to pass the long hours walking with various road-companions, and his stories had been racing in all directions up and down the road, all by themselves. His meeting with Dragonlord Eris in the Dungeons of Thoom was one of the most popular. He spoke in a well-practiced voice, with broad gestures, and he could see that even Brood and Scowl were listening closely.

“I want to come with you to meet the Blue Lady!” Miranda squealed when he had finished. Brood and Scowl grew suddenly more surly.

Brothers. Cousins. Lovers. Trouble, whoever they were.

Jake stopped and looked Miranda straight in the eye. She gazed back, and a light was in her eyes. She was maybe eighteen, and pretty, and he was just over thirty. He’d been with other women, a few times, but in these days of irregular birth control and frequent maternity deaths, sex was complicated and more often than not ended with a lot of angry screaming. In his experience, the pleasure wasn’t worth the painful aftermath. After a decade on the road, he had no desire to settle down anywhere and raise a family. And the road was no place for a child, intended or otherwise.

He put a hand on her shoulder, to keep her from moving in and kissing him.

“Miranda, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you from searching for the Blue Lady. Maybe we’ll meet someday in her Garden. But you can’t come with me. This is a journey I have to make on my own.”

“But why? Why do you have to go alone?” Tears quivered in Miranda’s eyes.

“I have many… amends to make, before I meet the Blue Lady,” Jake said. It sounded pretty good, once he’d said it aloud.

“Oh, Jake!” The tears spilled over, but she was smiling. She shrugged off his hand, threw her arms around him, and held him tight. Brood began to scowl, and Scowl took a step toward him. Jake shook his head slightly, meeting Scowl’s eyes. Scowl stopped.

“Now,” Jake announced, gently disengaging from Miranda’s embrace, “I need to meditate, alone. Please, the three of you continue without me. Be mellow.” He gazed straight at Scowl as he said this, and Scowl nodded almost imperceptibly.

He sat on the hot concrete of the highway, and watched the three of them walk away until they vanished in the distant heat-haze.

No choice now. You don’t want to run into them again, not even by accident. Scowl will slip a knife between your ribs.

He thought about it. Why not give Florida a try? It would be something different.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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Saint Jake – The Road

Jake approached the fire warily. Food wasn’t regular, nor always healthy, and he seemed more bone than meat. He’d been drawn to the fire by the light and the smell of something cooking, and sat carefully, hands in view, across from the person heating a can of Dinty Moore stew over the fire.

“Hungry?” the other man asked. Like Jake, he was painfully gaunt. There were patches of gray in his rough beard.

“Powerful,” Jake answered.

“Aught to trade?”

“A little weed.”

“You mean ditchweed,” the other man answered, with a grimace of disgust.

“No, good stuff,” Jake answered. “Purple haze.”

The man’s eyebrows went up.

“No shit? Lots better company than I had last night.” He gestured to the empty stretch of fallen log beside him.

Jake rose and walked around the fire to sit beside the older man.

Wariness on the road was habitual, but of necessity had resolved into a kind of courtesy. Robbery was rare — people on the road these days had little to nothing, and it wasn’t worth taking a scratch or a bite over nothing. Food was shared regardless, which blunted the main reason for theft. But trade was expected, if the other person had anything to trade. Jake had been robbed only once when he’d just started walking the road, three years ago, and the fellow had sat him down afterward and taught him the rules. So it wasn’t even a proper robbery, more an object lesson.

Jake slowly pulled his pouch of purple haze from his pocket, and offered it to the older man, who raised it to his nose and sniffed. A softer expression crossed the man’s face.

“That’s good,” he said, and handed the bag back. “Dessert, then.”


The older man nodded, once. “Robert.”

When the stew started to bubble, Robert set it on a rock to cool, and they both watched stars appear in the cerulean evening sky. When the can was cool enough to hold, Robert took a spoon from his pocket and took the first bite, then handed the can to Jake. Jake had his own spoon ready, and took a bite, then handed back the can. They passed it back and forth until the can was empty and scraped clean.

Jake took the pouch back out of his pocket, and put a generous pinch into the tiny pipe Robert had pulled from a different pocket on his vest, then placed a pinch in his own pipe. Jake heated a twig to a coal in the fire, and lit his pipe: the sweet stench of burning marijuana filled the air. He inhaled deeply, and passed the coal to Robert, who lit his own pinch and drew until the glow in the pipe flickered out. He held his breath for nearly thirty seconds before he slowly exhaled.

Monosyllables melted into easy conversation. Life histories had been polished by the road into smooth, elegant gems as terse as an old-world resume.

Robert, once married with two children, software designer and good at his job. Laid off, turned to drink, wife left him and took the kids. Stayed in shelters for two years, then got restless and hit the open road. Wouldn’t think of going back.

Jake, teen-age slacker and video gamer, mother died in a fracking quake that destroyed his house and almost got him. Hitched to the Pacific coast and then found himself on the road. Sometimes missed his mother, and desperately wanted to finish the last video game he’d played, the Dragonlords of Sym.

“You played Dragonlords?” Robert asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Almost finished it,” Jake replied.

“I worked on that game,” Robert said. “Just a bit, at the beginning, before they laid me off. Looked good.”

“It was awesome. Best AI on the market, and you could actually talk to the characters in the game.”

“You almost finished it? I thought it wasn’t supposed to end?”

“Yeah, that’s what they said. But someone on-line said you could force an ending if you backed all of the Dragonlords into a corner at once. Kinda like a checkmate in chess. I was that close.”

“Tell me about your favorite battle.” Robert’s gaze was far-away.

“That would be the Arena of Fate,” Jake said, his voice taking on timbre and excitement. “They stripped me of all my weapons, except my fleschette rifle, and all twelve Dragonlords were there….”

Jake’s voice rose and fell, and Robert listened with rapt attention. When Jake finally fell silent, Robert slowly brought his hands together in deliberate applause.

“You are the best entertainment I’ve had in a month of Sundays,” Robert said. “It’s just a damn video game, but you tell it with such passion. I’m in your debt, Jake. Thank you.”

They fell silent after that, individually contemplating the night sky and the vagaries of fate. Then Robert wished Jake a good night and curled up on the ground close to the fire. Jake watched the coals for a few more minutes, then curled up and fell asleep.

Copyright © 2017, Joseph C. Nemeth, all rights reserved

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