Cargo

An old wooden wagon rolls clumsily down an old dirt trail nestled along a wheat field. The sun beats down on a hot day in summer, pulsing the life out of the famished crops. The heat steams out what little remains of the water puddles from the night's rain.

A peasant man wields the reins of the wagon as it clunks across the barren landscape. He wears a remarkably large straw hat, its rim longer than it is wide. He whistles a jolly tune from his homeland, a folk tune, a drunkard's theme.

Seated on the rustic bench beside him lays a young boy. The child is weak and strung out from the long journey. This boy sleeps soundlessly, accustomed to the loud ruckous of wooden parts banging against metal bolts. The flapping noises of the leather canvas that hides away the cargo settled inside the wagon.

The wagon is dragged by a frail horse, if you want to call it that. It's old and grey and it's on its last limb. The peasant has been unable to purchase a new stallion, a stronger stallion, one that can pull his precious cargo longer, faster. If he could afford it, the aging equine would have a bullet in its head. A deserving end to such a work horse.

The boy stirs and grumbles as he wakes from his slumber. He smiles to the peasant's tune and hums along with him softly. This boy and his peasant, a choir in the wasted landscape of gold and dirt.

Good morning, the peasant says to the child. Did you sleep well?

The boy shakes his head and rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist. He doesn't say anything at first, too drugged by the sandman. He squints from the bright, burning sun and locates his dirty hat. It looks similar to the peasant's, an heirloom. Instead of color and images, the boy only sees the red vessels inside his eyes, clouded grey vision and white blur.

I didn't, this road is bumpy, the boy said. I can't sleep on --

Before the child could finish, the back wheel of the wagon snags deep into a pit of dried mud where a puddle once lounged. The wagon shakes violently and the contents inside shifts about.
The peasant snaps the reins to remind the old horse to continue its march. The cargo will be fine, the peasant says to himself. He appears skeptical and worried.

Jamison, what does it look like? Where are we? The child asked the peasant with curiousity.
The young boy wipes his nose and coughs loudly. The fever had broke from last night, however, the boiling heat of the sun against his body makes him feel as horrible as he was in the cold night.
The merchant rubs the scruff of his chin, rubbing his cheek with a wrinkled hand. He smiles and offers the world a glimpse of yellow teeth. He often makes jokes to his clients that he would be better off without a tooth than with what he has left eroded from salted beef.

The peasant places a feeble hand on the top of the boy's head and shifts the hat down on the kid's head playfully. The child giggles some and readjusts himself then hacks up a thick thunk of something.

"Nothing, there really isn't anything here. Some crops, yellow and brown. A dusty trail. A distant tower and a few mountain tops. It's pretty," said the peasant. He lies.
The child nods and lounges again and asks, "When will we be there?"
Soon. Very soon, he said.

The peasant looks out across the golden wheat fields and to either side of the trail, like telephone poles, stand 10 foot crucifixes. Each of them hangs a dried crust of what was once a man. Their faces are sightly frozen in a glimpse of agony, suffering, and fear. Their flesh is dried on what is left of their skulls. Burned in their foreheads are cross hatches, "X." The mark of evil.

The potholes in the dirt trail are from the downpour a few nights ago. The peasant remembers the storm, a wild fury of God's wrath. A fearful storm with cracking lightning and pounding thunder rolling through with the anger of old gods. The rain pounded the ground and destroyed villages. The floodwaters swept entire cottages and huts away with ease.

On this trail, the mutilated remains of a trade route, the dried imprints of horses' hooves. The trudged marks of heavy cargo on wheels. An exodus from somewhere to anywhere. The caravan was moving fast and tore the muddy trail apart. From what the caravan ran from, the peasant doesn't speculate.

In the distances is a tower just as the peasant said there was, though it also appeared like a tombstone in the steaming summer day. From the windows, People idly swung inside like puppets on strings, flicking here and there as the crows pecked at them. Freshly dead with that aroma of bloated fat and feces.

The peasant would like to say this was an uncommon sight, but he would be lying again. He couldn't consider anything but the mission at hand. His precious cargo. It must reach the merchant city of Roe. It was the last request of a drowning man during the storm.

So he believes his own lies and snaps the reins of the horse in denial. The steed scuffs and weens a terrible noise. The horse is on its last foot and the peasant understands this. If he can't reach the merchant city of Roe in time, he fears another storm will brew. Another exodus from somewhere to anywhere. A mass execution of men, women, and children like the countryside has never seen.

The horse stumbles on an imprint of a horseshoe. The peasant was poor and could never afford to shoe his old horse. He wishes now that he did spend the time to give the horse protection from the elements.

The wagon jerks forward as the horse catches itself from a fully fall into the road. The old merchant hollers a calming tone to his old friend, trying to ease the burden as much as he can.

The peasant knows the trip won't be easy. He knows his horse will soon be unable to continue the journey in this terrible summer weather. He returns to whistling a jolly song, a folk tune, a drunkard's theme.