Turbinio

Rye and Oak

With great difficulty, you led Mountain Tim to your broken wagon. ''You three idiots owe me a wheel,'' you joked, but the man hadn't answered you.

As embarrassed as you were to admit it, you couldn't stop thinking about Gyro and Johnny. Deep down, you hoped they were okay since you had been able to stabilize Mountain Tim's condition. It took a few good swigs of whiskey to get him through the twenty-long minutes of stitching wounds. Now he rested in a chair you had placed for him. Weak as he was, he seemed to want to prove to himself that he wasn't that badly hurt.

You were in your wagon arranging and picking up some fallen pots. The explosion sent dust everywhere, and you lamented that your shower had been for nothing. You wanted to get rid of the bad thoughts that surrounded you and quietly hummed a song you had heard a few years ago. You took an open bottle of Mexican whiskey that you had offered Mountain Tim and drank a few long sips without using a glass.

''What did you say, Miss (Y/N)?'' You were startled by Mountain Tim's question, you thought he was asleep or didn't even hear you humming.

''What?'' You said instinctively.

''The song you were singing.'' He looked at you with that fleeting, knowing look. ''It's in Spanish, isn't it? But you said something else.''

''Oh... Qué voy hacer?'' You said without singing. ''Je ne sais pas.''

''French?''

You nod.

''What I'll do? I don't know. That's what it says.''

''Where did you learn French? If you don't mind answering.''

''I lived a few months in a place where everybody spoke French, and I learned a few things.''

''Spent a few months in France, you mean?''

''No.'' You smiled. ''French Guiana. I also learned a little Dutch in Suriname.''

''You're a very fascinating person, (Y/N). I'm really lucky that we have met, I owe my life to you''

''Pas de problème, comrade.''

He gave you one of his endearing smiles again. You nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward and took another sip of whiskey, which ran down your chin. You leaned against your small balcony. Mountain Tim straightened up laboriously in his chair, and you had the feeling that he shared his pain with you. You held out the whiskey to him, and he took it without hesitation.

You looked at him and his bandages. You remembered the moment of the explosion and watched the workers clearing the debris from the hotel, along with a couple of police officers who occasionally waved respectfully at Mountain Tim. All you could think of was the moment you saw his body bound and parted with thick sisal ropes, and curiosity escaped your lips.

''Mountain Tim...'' You called wistfully. ''I hope I'm really crazy, but I wanted you to answer something.''

He looked at you, waiting for you to continue.

''At the time of the explosion, when you told me not to approach you. I saw some strings on your body, connecting your arms and legs... but it didn't look... touchable. It was like ghosts. You were completely torn apart, and a few minutes later you reappeared totally fine.''

He looked at you with such genuine surprise that in a second you forgot the possibility that you were crazy.

''So you mean you can see? Can you see the ropes?''

''Yes.'' You swallowed hard. ''What was that?''

''To be honest, Miss (Y/N), I thought you were some kind of witch.'' He joked and showed a confident smile. ''But now I know where your abilities come from. If you can see my strings, it means you're a stand user.''

''What? What the hell is that?''

''The natives call it a cursed skill. It's given to those who step on a place called the Devil's Palm. You, Miss (Y/N), have also been in this place before.''

Cursed skill? That didn't make any sense. Everything you know, you inherited from your mother and the dozens of trips you took. Your talent came from a lifetime of research, not supernatural abilities, that was all bullshit. You suppressed the impulse to question him and kept silent, still unconformed. So Gyro, Johnny, and even that terrorist are stand users? To be honest, that would explain those weird steel balls.

''I see... Do you plan to continue the race?'' You broke the silence and changed the talk.

''No. I can't push myself too hard. But, you need to go, don't you? I'm sorry about your wagon. I'll make sure it's good as new again.''

''What? Don't worry about it, it's fine, Mountain Tim!'' You couldn't help but blush and be embarrassed by his kindness.

''If it wasn't for you, I don't even know if I would be alive. It's the least I can do to thank you. There is another hotel that's still whole, go there, take a shower and rest, miss (Y/N). I'll ask them to call you when everything is ready.''

''That's very kind, thank you. But you're the one who needs to rest, I'm fine.''

''I insist. I'm sure we'll meet again, just consider it an attempt to pay my eternal debt to you.''

In a peaceful silence, you smiled. Even though you didn't understand much of the conversation you were having, it was incredibly revealing. The tensions and absurdities of that day were more exhausting than you could have imagined, so you didn't hesitate to take Mountain Tim's advice and go to the hotel, leaving the wagon under his supervision. You felt a deep sadness that he had to drop out of the race and let the guilt wash over you.

You thought about everything he had said, and also about how little you knew about this race and its participants. A fleeting image flashed through your mind: that girl lying lifeless in the desert sand, forgotten there. You killed her. Your eyes closed and you swallowed hard. Keeping your mind busy was the best thing you could do for yourself now.