Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate (24 page)

Finally, the littlest one slipped out of her sister’s lap, and crawled into mine. She pressed her small curly blond head (which smelled like a hug) against my chest and asked, “Daddy?”

I hugged her back, and said, “Sure.”

Would you have done any different? It wasn’t just Doctor Calgori’s dying words to me. These tiny children had lost their father and mother when they were too young to remember them. They were barely taken care of by a dying guardian made of metal, who at any point could seize up and never move again. Then they would be alone, in a wasteland of man-eating beasts. No, don’t kid yourself, you would have done the same damn thing. Even if you think yourself cruel enough to correct this babe with glistening eyes, “No, kid, I ain’t your dad.” But you are wrong. You’d have done the same thing.

I took a nap that morning, while the girls gleefully packed tiny suitcases full of things like crayons, dollhouse furniture, and other tiny toys their guardian had carefully plucked from the ruins with his massive metal hands. I never mentioned we were leaving, they just assumed.

When I woke, they excitedly asked me where we were going. “I guess we are going to live in the skies,” I said. “Have you ever seen an airship?” They screeched with joy. This was too much, Daddy had returned after so long that they could no longer remember what he looked like, only to take them to the clouds to spend the rest of their life as angels!

“Or mermaids!” said Isabella.

“No, mermaids are in the water,” Chloe said in the condescending tones of a big sister.

“No, only monsters live in the water,” Isabella said, with a dark and defiant look. Then she brightened. “We can be sky mermaids! Right, Daddy?”

“Uh, sure!” I said.

It was a hot, sticky day, and we took small suitcases outside, and strapped them onto the back of the bike. Then I loaded both girls into the sidecar, strapped the single seatbelt across their laps. They looked like they were about to go on their first roller coaster ride: excited, nervous and joyful. I went through the Bandersnatch’s starting ritual, as little Isabella watched every step with absolute fascination. Chloe was straightening the blanket over their laps, and lining up their little dolls at their feet on the floor of the sidecar.

The brass man stood looking down at me. “I trust you to be their guardian. I have heard your stories, and I trust you can keep them safe. I will get my new flywheel, and meet you at the crossroads in three days time if I am still moving. Then we will go to my father together.”

“I’ll keep them safe, Gyrod. I might not be made of brass, but I’ve lived through a few things myself.” I glanced at the girls, who looked up at me doe-eyed. “I will keep them safe,” I said, and with that I throttled back and rumbled down the dock and back down the bijou road.

Little Girl, in your dress of snowy white.

Get behind me, safe from creatures of the night.

With these arms and with these fists,

I’ll keep you safe and sound.

Through the forests and the mists,

We’ll go down,

This dark and twisty road.

~ Excerpt from This Dark and Twisty Road

It was late in the morning when we started out, and we spent the better part of the day watching the trees and marshes of the bijou become more sparse, until finally as the sun started to set we broke through the last line of trees and back out on the prairie.

The crickets, or cicadas, or whatever bug it was that sings at night were so ferociously loud I could hear them over the small bike’s sputtering engine. Chloe, the oldest girl, was now asleep. Her eyes where tightly shut under her small goggles and her red pigtails were waving in the wind. Isabella, the tiny girl in the white lace dress, was nearly to the land of nod, but under her heavy eyelids she watched the sun stain the sky and distant mountains crimson.

I’ve got three wheels, and a frame of rust.

Blue skies above, and behind me dust.

Half a tank of gas won’t get very far.

But you’re safe from apocalypse, in Daddy’s sidecar.

- Lyrics from “To the Apocalypse in Daddy’s Side Car”

Honestly, I would have camped out at sunset myself. Laid my bedroll down and slept by my bike like a cowboy sleeps near his horse, except for the fear. I was afraid to stop moving for fear what would catch me if I did. Earlier in the day, the girls pointed out several large beasts feasting on a dead thing. Their fresh kill rendered us completely uninteresting, but I was haunted by the thought that we would eventually meet hungry versions of these beasts.

Finally, just before dawn, I determined the danger of falling asleep on my handlebars was just as life threatening as being eaten in our sleep, so I pulled the bike off the side of the road into a cluster of trees, laid on a patch of dried grass, and fell instantly asleep.

Some hours later, I found myself struggling to keep my eyelids covered enough to sleep, while the harsh hot sun slow-roasted my skin. I rolled over, threw my arms across my head, threw my coat over my head, which was way too hot, and finally remembered where I was, and the fact that we were out in the open, and I pulled myself awake.

I sat urgently up, and gazed blearily around waiting for my eyes to get used to being opened. “Kids?”

I heard a tiny, “Yes, Daddy?”

“Where are you?” I asked, standing.

“Look! Sand castles!” I heard a pair of small voices say.

The girls were crouched on a little sandy beach by a small lake. Around the lake were various hot-climate trees including a few palms and a cactus or two. It was a perfect little desert oasis, and it looked like I had slept late into the morning while the girls had woken early and made palace after palace in the sand. From somewhere in the sidecar they produced a pair of toy princesses, who stood on top of their sandcastles.

The two were so engrossed with their peaceful play, that I couldn’t bring myself to force them back on the road immediately, so I dug into the trunk (there was a little trunk area behind the seat in the side car) and pulled out the only food I had brought with me; canned chili. Upon pulling out the can, I realized I had not brought a can opener, but I had a big bowie knife, so I put the can on a large rock, put my boot on the can, and attempted to saw the top off with the knife.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” asked little five-year-old year old Isabella. Still calling me Daddy…that was going to take a bit of getting used to. Honestly, though, I must have been built for this job, since I found I wasn’t even formulating a plan to pawn them off somewhere else. In a different era, I would have to ‘take them to the authorities’, whatever that meant, and never see them again. But this was not a time to pawn your troubles and responsibilities off on the system. This was a time to step up, and do things your damn self.

“Making breakfast,” I said, while still struggling with the knife.

“We had oranges for breakfast. They were on the trees!” said Isabella.

“Would you like an orange?” asked Chloe, holding three freshly picked oranges in the upturned front of her skirt. I guess these little urchins were self-sufficient.

So we shared a few more oranges, then I buckled the kids back into the sidecar, and were off. I never did get that can of chili open.

We were crossing back over the open plain again. Hundreds of miles of pale yellow grass, unendingly speckled with little dry bushes. In the blue distance were mesas, and occasionally an airship could be spied far overhead, heading off on business I could not guess.

We passed more elelopes,or whatever they were, lumbering along with that same look of mildly nervous placidity. The girls were thrilled with these, excitedly pointing and yelling to each other over the wind and road noise.

Half of the massive mesas were crested with small towns. These only seemed accessible by air travel, much to our frustrations. The girls were getting hungry, and the chili would require a longer stop then I wanted to make, so I’m afraid we spent the larger part of the day trying to find road access to one of the mesa-top towns. The irony that I spent half the day trying to get to a town so we wouldn’t have to stop a make camp, which would have taken less time, was not lost on me. But now the sky was turning blood-orange, and the kids were looking exhausted and hungry.

Finally, after I was about to give up on finding town access and was starting to settle on the idea of stopping and making a fire to heat the damn chili (which I’m sure these little girls would have not enjoyed) we stumbled upon a beautiful little temporary city of tents. They were all colors of the rainbow in deep dry jewel tones, with tassels, golden ropes, flags and pikes. This mobile town lined both sides of the road with carts, shops, food stands and hauls.

There were dogs, too. One or two or three per tent. Beautiful, well-cared for beasts, and only of the largest species. Great Danes, and Dobermans, and Mastiffs all stood watch over their family’s homes. Although cleaned and well-fed, these were working beasts. They carried loads when the town was on the move, and they fought for their families’ defense if beasts attacked. Many had deep scars, or were missing ears, but all were loved and respected.

This town was not just one Neobedouin tribe, but many, and the colors of each tribe could be plainly seen on the tents and flags of each triangular block. These torch-lit blocks all pointed toward a center square where a huge bonfire was blazing. As such, the bazaar/town formed a sort of pie-shape, with every road leading towards the center.

Our little bike sputtered straight toward the crowded plaza without attracting any undue attention, and we came to a stop in front of a cluster of oil bin fires, on one of which skewered meat was cooking. I lifted the girls out of the sidecar, and hand-in-hand we walked to pick out our dinner from the friendly looking cart vendors.

All ages wandered the square, from bent old men to tiny children holding their parent’s hands. They shopped, ate, played, and rested from the heat and labor of the day.

While we quietly ate in the growing blue shadows of the surrounding tents, musicians began to tune and play, while dancers stretched and strapped on their shoes and bracers around the fire. The music was the energetic blend of musical styles that I heard from the Neobedouins before: Middle Eastern dance music, American blue grass, and Eastern European gypsy folk. This music was infectious, and it was starting to affect my little girls, just as it affected all the young around us. Their feet twitched, and they rolled around on their bottoms. I often had to remind Isabella to sit back down and finish eating this long sought food – she kept standing to dance

Finally, as the sky was starting to settle into deep purples and midnight blues, the dancers began. They circled the fire like children circle a maypole, weaving in and out. At the same time, they spun flaming balls on short ropes, and the musicians played their fiddles, darbukas, banjos and massive kettle drums. Then the circle broke into numerous sets of square dancers, and they locked arms and spun, while swinging fire with their outside hands.

I was just taking notice of a dog barking and jumping at something unseen away to the north of the town center when we were approached. A girl of eighteen, as brown as terra-cotta, with white blond dread locks and skin laced with fresh peeling henna, approached pig-tailed Chloe with a gentle smile. She handed the girls lit sparklers, took their hands and danced with them, teaching them how to spin arm in arm like the square dancers, and how to break and spin like a dervish when the music called for it.

I watched the kids in amazement: after an exhaustive, grueling day’s journey with nearly no food, all they needed was music and a bit of inspiration to be on their feet and spinning hand-in-hand like a carousel. I remember the thought flickering through my sleepy mind,
I wonder if young kids love to dance because it in subconsciously reminds them of spinning in their mother’s wombs. The beat of the drums matching the beat of their mothers heart, they themselves spinning like they spun inside the amniotic fluid.
I sketched some lyrics in my tiny note book:

Dance, child dance. Dance child, dance.

Daylight is waning, night times refraining,

So dance my child.

Dance, Dance, My Isabella.

Safely, in your carosella.

Dance through the spinning,

Just like your beginning.

Dance my child.

Dance my child.

~ Excerpt from the song Sleep Isabella