Turbinio

Camellia and Bergamot

During the day you met many important people who had come to watch the race. Making small talk about others was your specialty, and in the process, you discovered many things.

Some children showed a certain curiosity about Cadichon. They would come up to pet her and offer some carrots, and these children had some interesting pieces of information. Like a little boy, for example, who seemed to be a big fan of a runner named Mountain Tim. He was some kind of cowboy who worked for the local sheriff.

You also had the opportunity to meet some other runners. One of them was a brit named Diego Brando, who managed to be even nastier than Gyro Zeppeli.

When he came to your wagon, he inquired about the teas you offered. None of the samples seemed to please his discerning palate. Not even the freshest camellia you had appealed to him. You gritted your teeth, frustrated and tired of this customer who had been there far too long.

"No, no, the flavor is too wild, it looks like there are clumps of dirt in the cup!" He complained after taking a long sip of freshly brewed black tea. "It's terrible."

"My products are purely medicinal, darling. If you looking for something exquisite, you'll find it in the pantry of the train that carries the rich people." You reply rudely, taking a jar of bergamot leaves and holding it out for him to smell. "Or you could use these leaves to give your black tea a sweet, citrusy flavor."

Diego frowned and considered your smug smile. He sniffed the bergamot leaves, surprised by the incredibly fresh scent, and reached for the glass.

"Fine." He murmured with furrowed brows. "I'll take those two."

With a lot of patience, you managed, in the end, to get him to pay double what you would normally charge. After all, he didn't seem like a bad person to you. He was just too European.

After that, you met some ladies and some locals. You chatted with them, fake laughing a few times. Being sociable was a crucial part of selling something. At least you found out a lot about that Johnny Joestar. He must have been a famous jockey who was involved in a terrible accident a few years ago. You had only arrived in this country a few months ago, so it would be normal for you to know absolutely nothing about this place.

Besides, you have heard that Gyro came to America on a ship of European royalty. You would not be surprised to find out that Gyro belonged to a royal lineage, which would justify his rudeness and meanness. But from what you have been told, he's a stranger.

Another interesting person you met was Pocoloco. He seemed very interested in your palm reading services, but he had no money with him and promised to come back at the next stage to learn more about his future.

The sun was already setting. All the runners had settled down in the hotels and bars of the town, and you felt your eyes watering with every long yawn. It was a very productive day that took a lot of energy. You fed Cadichon and climbed a small ladder hidden in your wagon. Its roof provided enough space to sleep up there, safe from snakes, bugs, and pesky people.

The next stage would be a complete desert. You were already more than used to this kind of journey. You remembered the time you spend in the desert of La Guajira and how good it was to jump into the sea and feast on patacones at the end of the trip, but that was nothing compared to Arizona. You had heard many stories about travelers who had gotten lost in the blazing sun and died slowly and painfully. No sea and no patacones.

You woke up very early, about five hours before the start of the race, and stared intently at a map in your hand.

You planned the route in your head. You would ride near the Colorado River, but this time closer to the main route. You knew the race would take more than a day, so it will be fortunate if you find someone camping out in the open to offer them some help, even though you didn't know if that was even allowed inside the race.

You set out that morning without hesitation. While driving through the desert, you enjoyed the silence that hung in the air. Occasionally, you allowed yourself the luxury of stopping to snack on some dried fruit and chat with Cadichon.

"Hey, girl." You called the mule. "Did you know that the deserts up here in the north are like gold mines? You'll discover lots of new plants."

You bend down and examine the ground, pulling out a couple of small round cacti with a pink flower at the top. What was special about these cacti was that they had no spines. You then stood up and walked over to Cadichon, who stretched her neck to sniff the plant as if to detect the scent.

"This little guy here is called peyote, it's a great pain reliever. But..." you chuckled playfully. "This one is for recreational use."

A few more hours passed, and as usual, you continued to chat with Cadichon.

In the afternoon, when the sun was too strong for you to continue walking, you rested in the shade of a rock. You prepared a good amount of St. John's wort oil and a clay mixture in two large pots. You spread it on your shoulders and a little on your cheek and did the same to Cadichon.

"My mother once said that the skin is not just the outer protective layer of the body." You murmured wistfully to the mule as you spread the clay on her back to cool it down. "It's our window to the physical world. We touch and are touched thanks to our skin. It's our image and our deepest way to connect. How are we supposed to connect with the world around us if we don't take care of it?"

The mule snorted, flattened its long ears, and enjoyed the coolness offered by the makeshift sunscreen lotion. But soon it neighed and shook its neck as it noticed a strange presence. You looked around, searching for whatever had alarmed Cadichon, and spotted the small figure of a man sitting on the scorching sand on the distant horizon. He was alone, without a horse. You immediately thought it was someone lost and didn't hesitate to climb on the seat of your wagon and drive it to the man.

As you approached, you remembered hearing some customers talking about a native runner who had come in first place on the last stage without a horse. You vaguely recalled hearing his name announced amid the screaming crowd. Sandman.

For a moment your eyes sparkled with amazement. "Some men are born and made for the desert", you heard on one of your trips, and you had a feeling that Sandman was one of those men. He seemed to be meditating, eyes closed, focused on every ray of sunlight that fell on the fabric that protected his skin.

"You're Sandman, right?" You dismounted from your wagon and stood beside your mule, watching the man open his eyes and stare at you in a deadly way.

He fell silent, let out a long, weary sigh, stood up, and let a cascade of sand slide down his legs. For a moment, you regretted bothering him.

"I'm not interested in your products." He replied rudely, but calmly. You felt slightly insulted, but it didn't matter.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead. But you look great."

"If that's all, your doubts are over. You can go away."

"Are you sure you don't want anything? Water? Clay?" You feel like you woke up today ready to be a good Samaritan. Your sales yesterday were so good, you don't have to worry about charging him.

"Thank you, but no." He turned icily and started to leave, not bothering to look at your face.

"I'm just a hawker," you never particularly liked that term for your work, but since you arrived in this country it's been the only word they use for you. "I'm not in the race, I just help around. I can't deny anyone a glass of water."

He went on without looking back. You murmured to Cadichon how strange he was, looked at him one last time, and kept walking.

Incredible as it was, Gyro and Johnny were the least unpleasant figures you met on this trip, and that worried you.