Tevun-Krus #102 - TrashPunk

Oasis - A Story by @jinnis

Oasis

by jinnis

Atop the hill, a hot gust tore at my coat. It carried the smell of something burning, and I dropped flat on my stomach between two rusty sheets of metal, closed my eyes and sniffed. No, nothing, just the dust disturbed by my sudden fall and some flakes of rust tickled my nose. Perhaps the ghosts of the past haunted these ruins.

Still, I didn't intend to offer an easy target. With squinted eyes, I studied the surroundings, assuring my body was covered by the dry, knee-high grasses and the remains of ancient constructions. Only when I was convinced I was alone, I stood up and adjusted the pack's straps on my shoulders, placing the weight away from the sore spots. The lightness of my bag reminded me of my dwindling water supply. I had been walking since early morning and needed another drink soon, or my headache would become unbearable.

With a deep sigh, I continued my way towards the setting sun, increasing the distance between myself and my home with every step. The prospect of the long way back sent a shiver through my body. But I wouldn't and couldn't go home empty-handed. Besides, I had to find uncontaminated water before I started the return trek.

Water... always water that directed my moves. And not only mine. Since the Great War, everything turned around the availability of water. Even the war itself had been caused by growing water shortness, as unbelievable as it seems. Back then, there were still glaciers on the now-dry mountain ranges, and winter brought rain and snow.

At least, that's what my grandma told me. But then, she couldn't have known for sure, as she was born well after the war herself. So my dad called her a liar when she read us bedtime stories from a book with brittle pages covered in strange writing. Dad said she made it all up, that no one could read these ancient scribbles.

I believed him. He was an important person, the water master of the town. In his hand rested the responsibility for the precious liquid and—more often than not—the decision between life and death. It would never do to cross my dad, or I might go without water for a day. Grandma did, more than once. Then she packed her book away and stopped telling us bedtime stories.

"You're getting too old for them anyway," she said while she stirred the stew in the battered pot over the open fire. When I asked, she insisted the smoke caused the tears brimming her eyes.

That was ten years ago. Grandma died last summer. "The heat," Dad said.

We buried her body in the garden—for the nutrients. I doubted there were many in her frail and withered body. Still, I kept quiet. "Tradition keeps us alive," had been one of her favourite quotes. I never knew where she took them from. Perhaps her books. We found several underneath her mattress. Dad burned them in the cooking fire—cheap fuel.

I tried not to think about Grandma and her books too often. Dad told me I was too much like her, carrying my head in the clouds and a worthless member of society. Unlike my brother Sam, who trained to become a water master himself. Yes, Sam made my father proud.

Perhaps that's why I took up scavenging. It would never get me the standing my brother had, but it allowed me to leave the settlement for days. I would climb the hill beyond the town, look back one last time, and lose myself between the ruins. Few dared to venture where I did. In time, some respected me for the strange loot I brought back and praised my ingenuity. Not Dad, though—he'd never acknowledge me.

When other guys and gals asked to join me, I declined. I wasn't ready to share my secret with anyone. Grandma had gifted me two tiny devices the day before she died and explained its use. A compass, she called one, but it seemed like magic to me. I still remember her cackle when I told her so. The other, a broken whistle. "To keep the dogs away."