Derelict

It Is Better to Dwell in the Wilderness

He disgusted even himself.

With no strength to sit up and little inclination to do so, Wyatt sprawled across the bed of the cart, staring overhead at a steely sky so fiercely baked by the sun all color had leached from it. It stretched ever onward filling his vision with a muted gray canopy. Rison said nothing more but Wyatt knew she was close at hand. He could hear her walking, hear her humming some near-tuneless ditty to herself, and if he closed his eyes he imagined he could feel the touch of her hand on his arm once again.

Hours passed and Wyatt drifted in and out of awareness. He heard voices again; some calm and concerned, evident by their soft and soothing tones. Others were angry and excitable. An argument perhaps? A fight even? It really didn't matter, he decided. Another time the cart had stopped and he felt hands exploring, searching. He opened his eyes to a grizzled, unshaven face peering at him with an all too familiar look and confirming what he already knew. He was a Speck: worth nothing and treated accordingly.

Yet the man's hands were gentle. "Nothing broken," he said, not speaking to Wyatt but to another, someone outside his line of vision. "He's banged up pretty good and gonna be havin' a mess of bruises and the like, but he'll be up 'fore long. 'Course, keep an eye on him. Maybe somethin' coulda got messed up inside. Ain't no way a tellin' for sure out here." There was a grunt of acknowledgment from another man then the cart started rolling again.

"You hear that?" It was Rison, hovering above. She handed him a tin cup and indicated he was to drink. "Doc says you're gonna be just fine. Nothing broken."

Wyatt absorbed this for a moment, trying not to gulp down the liquid and recognizing only too late the bitter aftertaste. Ratweed. "Maybe so," he allowed, noticing she had neglected to mention everything Doc had said. He moved to sit upright, struggling against the ache in his ribs and arms. Every movement shot a bright ray of pain through him. "But that don't make it feel one bit any better."

Rison shrugged and continued walking. What could she possibly say? Nobody needs to talk to a Speck, he thought. She don't owe me nothin'.

The cart rolled on, its gentle sway lulling him into a deep stupor. He slept, or at least experienced something approximating sleep, but for how long he had no idea. He felt powerless and weak with his arms and legs not only refusing to respond but feeling as though they were disconnected and no longer a part of him. He tried to focus, at first straining to move or even feel his fingers. Nothing. No movement, no sensation. After trying the same with his arms and legs, he realized they were gone. Disappeared. They had deserted him. His phantom limbs were now off on their own, roaming about the cart in an apparent effort to seek fame and fortune. A part of him began to worry about the absence of his arms and legs but an equal part realized he really didn't care. Ha! Let them fend for themselves, he decided. They haven't done much for me. His mind continued to drift with the numb realization a line of drool had snaked out of his mouth and down his face. If he could only locate and then enlist the cooperation of either of his hands he could wipe it away but the recalcitrant appendages continued to ignore him as they explored the cart on their own. Rison would notice, he realized. She would shake her head in disgust at the pathetic, limbless, drooling Speck. It was yet another in a lengthy string of humiliations he could do little to deflect. A tear escaped and joined the drool running down his face.

Perfect. Just absolutely perfect.

Sometime later he realized it had been the ratweed. Rison had given him ratweed to drink, he remembered now. In the fuzzy awareness in which he now dwelt, he recalled ratweed possessing the capacity to induce a near catatonic state. The leaves of the plant also possessed some reputed healing qualities, not to mention fostering a host of hallucinations and odd dreams. Boss often sold ratweed when in season or he could get his hands on a supply. He would send Wyatt, toting a canvas sack, out into the ditches and gullies surrounding Cairo during late summer, not allowed to return to the shop unless the sack was full. A partially filled sack would surely invite unwanted attention from the stick. Wyatt could never forget the bitter scent of the weed drying on racks in the sun. It tasted even worse.