Turbinio

American Ginseng

''What was that you gave to Higashikata?'' Sandman asked.

A man familiar with indigenous medicinal techniques and the esoteric services you offered would undoubtedly have any interest in your work. And even though Sandman was the most reclusive person you've ever met, it was quiet company. He didn't ask as many questions as the other runners, and every time he opened his mouth it was to make some undeniably useful and interesting observation.

A few minutes ago, a runner named Norisuke Higashikata complained of his incessant cough. For a moment, you questioned what a man at his age was doing in that race, but you kept your thoughts only in your mind, helping him without hesitation.

At first glance, some people around, as well as Higashikata himself, questioned your method of treating a cough. You took a pipe and told him to smoke a mixture of herbs. Kumbaya, you said. It was no surprise that the people there didn't know what kumbaya was, or that it was possible to relieve coughs through smoking. But Sandman's calm and interest, which watched from afar, intrigued you.

Sandman was one of the few runners who aroused great interest. You remembered how he meditated in the Arizona desert, impassive in the scorching sun, and felt you couldn't miss the opportunity to get to know him better.

You called him, offering some herbs, knowing he'd refuse. But that question surprised you

''Espinheira-santa and mint. They're great for asthma and bronchitis. I feel like you're already familiar with kumbaya, right?''

''Yes, I've seen something like that, but we don't call that name. But I've never heard of that herb. Espinheira-santa. It seems to me to be from South America, right?''

Your eyes shone and you smiled. You had no idea that so many words would come out of that mystery man's mouth.

''Yes, exactly!'' You confirmed. ''I've been to many places and brought herbs from them all. Maybe you're interested in some ginseng? It's very good for fatigue.''

''Interesting.'' He said, with an inflexible expression. ''What else do you have?''

During this time, Sandman's stony expression didn't change in any aspect. You had intentionally left your wagon near a French boutique to look for a gramophone in your spare time. In an almost platonic conversation with Sandman, you told him about your innumerable journeys and discoveries. You spared details about what you saw during the race, but Sandman's familiarity with the things you said kept him briefly distracted. He was a difficult guy to communicate with, and he seemed as vivid as the skulls in your wagon, but he was good company.

You smiled and talked a lot, but you listened intently to Sandman explaining his reasons for being in the race. The nobility of his goal and determination to cross the continent on his own feet, to buy land that should belong to his people by right, made you admire him a lot. You were almost hoping for Sandman's victory.

When you got to the door of the store, you looked inside. Before you came in, you said goodbye to Sandman.

''Sandman, I...''

''Soundman.'' He interrupted with a strangely quiet roughness. ''In my native language, my tribesmen call me 'the one who creates sound'. Sandman is just the wrong way to call me. My name is Soundman.''

''Oh, fine.'' You smiled. ''Soundman. Honestly, you're the first runner I've been tempted to cheer for. I need to buy some things, but I want you to take this.''

It took a few seconds to look for a small vial of indistinct clay inside your bag. Ginseng roots and red vines.

''Ginseng americano.'' You said, without hiding the accent. ''I think you already know. Please accept this as a little gift.''