Halcyon's Wake: Faith

Purple Desert

I awoke to the smell of meat cooking over an open mesquite fire and heard soft conversation off to my right as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was lying on a bed of blankets and furs, tucked away in a small alcove of what was undoubtedly an enormous cave. The fire off to my right cast long shadows high above my head that danced across ancient, deeply red stone. Gravity still reminded me of its presence, and with some effort I took a deep, cleansing breath, gingerly rising on uncertain feet. I stretched hard and welcomed the feel of weight again, then made my way towards the voices I’d heard.

Jimmy Blue Smoke -Smokey- was sitting in a lawn chair beside the small fire with his grandson’s, Mark and Chase. Large chunks of meat were skewered on sticks propped up against the red stones ringing the fire, causing my stomach to grumble. Mark grabbed another lawn chair from the cave wall and set it next to Smokey for me.

“Dinner will be ready in about 30 minutes,” Smokey said in greeting. “There’s a shower at the cave entrance if you’d like to get cleaned up - all the provisions from the Soyuz are stacked there - Beth’s going through it all now.”

“Smokey,” I breathed in reply - “I’ve been dreaming of a hot shower for almost four months - I really don’t think you could’ve said anything sweeter to me, sir.” He laughed amiably as I headed toward the mouth of the cave.

Beth was sitting on one of the many storage containers, wearing only a white cotton towel wrapped around her midsection. Her hair was still wet and water glistened from her shoulders. She looked tired, but content, and smiled as I ambled my way towards her.

“Ain’t gravity a bitch,” I said, smiling.

“That it is, Zack. That it is. Towels are in that cupboard and there’s soap and shampoo in the shower stall. You are so gonna dig this shower.”

I walked around the corner and peeled out of my sweat-stained flight suit, grabbed a wash cloth and towel from the cupboard then entered the shower. It was finished in rough concrete, closely dyed to match the red stone, sort of like a campground shower but with a rather impressive shower-head more suited to a high-end hotel resort. That first kiss of hot water was almost better than any sex I’d ever had, and the moans I was groaning out proved it. I heard Beth laughing above the deluge, but didn’t care. This was awesome.

I stayed in the shower for about 15 minutes and idly wondered where the hot water came from as I toweled off. Beth laid out a new set of clothes for me from the provisions, and I clumsily re-dressed, still unaccustomed to my ever-present weight and gravity’s concrete resolve. When I emptied the pockets of my flight suit I was grateful to find that package of peanut M&M’s Jim had given me. Little orbs of delight had made it to space and back, probably a first for the record books. I tucked them back into my pocket - still not quite the rainy day worthy of their consumption.

I joined the others around the campfire and Smokey handed me a plate with a large haunch of elk accompanied by a large ear of a very-red corn along with a baked potato as lavender as - well, lavender. I’d eaten purple potatoes before - my wife had been a bit of a foodie; but they were never this large - nor remotely near the flavor of this steaming spud of starchy -almost sweet, succulence.

The utensils were equally unique, and Smokey caught me staring long and hard at my knife and fork. The knife was shaped like an ordinary, oversized, steak knife with a highly polished, mesquite heft; but the blade had an iridescence to it unlike anything I’d ever seen. Light as a feather and sharp as a laser. The fork was equally light, and appeared to have been sand-cast and polished to an exquisite finish. Bits of red, yellow and the ever-present purple shimmered from the utensils in the firelight as I twirled the fork and knife in the flickering light.

“Hiro Masamune made the blade and my grandson Mark cast the forks,” piped Smokey. “Liland is some pretty remarkable stuff, to say the least - you’ll meet Hiro shortly, he’s undoubtedly still off foraging.”

“Liland?” Beth asked.

“It’s what we’ve started calling the remnants of your sky-skin - the purple - or lilac sand that’s everywhere,” Smokey replied. “‘Lilac’ and ‘sand’ - Liland. Absolutely amazing compound that’s more versatile than manna, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll show you some of the pots I’ve thrown with it - remarkable soil, healing properties, malleable under fire - even functions as a stand-alone foodstuff - wished I’d had it back in my engineering days, and I wish I had a lab to study it further.”

Beth’s ears perked up when she heard ‘engineering’ and her raised eyebrows told Smokey to elaborate a bit.

“I was in research and development for an engineering firm for almost 35 years,” Smokey said through a mouthful of purple potato. “My speciality was commercial-grade ceramics in every application under the sun. Insulators in electronics, revolutionary building materials, innovations in fluid transport and piping - you name it. I retired 15 years ago and started teaching traditional pottery techniques at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff; using the science of my engineering skills coupled with the Hopi traditions I learned as a kid.”

A shadow from the cave entrance announced the arrival of what I assumed was Hiro Masamune. He was very short - even shorter than Mouse, but carried himself with a confidence that betrayed his obvious years under the sun. He looked to be about Smokey’s age, which I guessed to be mid to late 70‘s, maybe early 80‘s; but the twinkle in his eye spoke to a youthful exuberance that instantly drew me in.

“Nice to see our company finally decided to rouse from their slumber,” Hiro said in a thick, Texas drawl that defied his Asian appearance. “Hiro Masamune,” he said, extending a Liland-covered hand with a grip that could twist a pine knot into submission. “You must be Zack - and I reckon you’re Beth. Sure nice to meet y’all - we don’t get much welcome company these days.”

I smiled warmly and flexed my hand from the death-grip the diminutive Asian laid on me, then twirled the knife in my palm like a pinwheel - a skill I’d learned from one of my uncles in my younger days. “Nice work, Mr. Masamune - you live up to your name, sir. Have you crafted any swords from this stuff, yet?”

Hiro laughed. “You know your history, Major Dalton - I’m impressed.” Masamune was a name steeped in ancient, Japanese history - the moniker worn by its most revered sword-maker in the latter 13th century. “And yes, I have.” He unsheathed a blade that didn’t ‘sing’ like a steel blade as he pulled it free, but thrummed with a deeper, unfamiliar tone that no doubt resonated lethality. The very smoke from the fire seemed to part distinctly as it swam across the muted, lustrous blade. He offered me the sword for inspection hilt-first, a warning caution in his eyes, and I set my now empty plate on the ground beneath my feet, gingerly taking the proffered blade like it was a delicate, newborn infant.

I’d never held anything so exquisite in my life. I’d been a lifelong collector of swords, amassing a group rivaled only by a few, much wealthier counterparts in Russia and Asia - but I’d have sold my entire collection just to possess this one. It had almost no weight to it, other than a confident presence of it felt more than sensed. With one finger carefully away from what was undoubtedly a razor-honed edge, the blade balanced effortlessly with no hint of sway. I backed away from the fire a safe distance and began whirling the blade through a series of lunges and exercises, cringing at the unfamiliar gravity but grinning like a cheshire cat at the deftness and craftsmanship of the piece as it blazed through the air around me effortlessly.

“I want one,” I moaned. “Got a great spaceship I only used once that I’ll gladly trade for one of these, sir.”

Hiro laughed then deftly tossed a pine log the size of an oversized cinder block my way in a move that defied his stature. I instinctively lashed out at the log with a swift stroke from the sword and watched it sever against the grain, right through a solid knot, then fell gingerly in the fire, as if laid there on purpose. How freakin’ sweet was that!

I never even felt the blade contact the wood, other than the faintest hint of an almost imagined resistance. The dopey, astonished look on my face set Hiro to cackling as he unbuckled his sword belt and threw it across the fire to me.

“Welcome back to earth, Major” he laughed. “And consider it a deal - I’d love to see what a little titanium melted down with Liland can wield - but I do have one more favor to ask in trade.”

The smiling Asian walked over to an old, particle-board cupboard propped against the cave wall and retrieved a large photo album from the upper confines of the weathered, garage-sale piece of furniture. He sat down in a chair Chase had deployed next to Smokey and began rifling through the pages quickly, pausing at a page rather distant in the grand tome of what looked to be trading cards.

“Side-by-side”, Hiro announced with triumph, peeling away the cellophane and producing two baseball-card-sized images I instantly recognized. A couple thousand of them were undoubtedly ash now in the foot-locker of my former Florida home.

NASA started producing ‘baseball cards’ of all it’s astronauts way back in the Mercury project days, continuing the marketing effort of desperate, youthful appeal all through the modern era. I had my own collection of Apollo astronaut cards - all signed - and I saw my proud jarhead grin and Beth’s infectious smile beaming back from what seemed a very distant past. Hiro produced a black Sharpie covered in Liland dust, and I proudly scrawled my autograph across the bottom of the image, passing the Sharpie to Beth.

“These were worth about fourteen bucks on ebay,” I quipped. “Pretty fair trade, I reckon, sir. Not too sure what the market’s like these days.”

“Fourteen bones?” Beth chimed in as she scribbled her signature across the bottom of the card. “Mine were going for at least fifty-seven before Halcyon arrived.”

We all shared a laugh at my expense and I sheathed my new exquisite trophy as the tumult died down; the distinctive ‘shunk’ of the blade riding home announcing a bitter reality that quietly clouded over our pleasant gathering.

Those around the campfire finished their meals in comfortable silence, peppered with light banter that skillfully danced around the precarious and uncertain nature of where we now sat. I pulled the blade just a bit from the hilt a few times, finding comfort as I guided it home with a resolute ‘click’ that sounded a bit ominous above the coziness of the crackling fire.

Somehow I knew the welcome chime of it sliding home would become an all-too-familiar ring as the coming day’s progressed.