The small group had marched for hours under the blistering sun when Mr. Miller finally called a halt.
“That’s enough for today, boys. We’ll make camp here. Andrew, water the horses.”
Connor dramatically dropped his pack, flopping face first into the sunbaked sand. Within seconds, he was howling in pain and wiping the sand from his face. Andrew turned to look and found Connor with a bright red cheek and a ring of sand around his face.
“You big dummy! What did you think was gonna happen?!”
“Connor, pitch the tents! We’ve got to get out of the sun for a few hours. Remember, before you put them up, I want you to dig down at least a foot. You don’t want to be sitting on blazing hot sand, you’ll cook yourself.”
In twenty minutes, the horses had finished their rationed water, and the tents were up.
Connor was sitting next to Andrew in their tent panting. He wiped his head and took a long drink from his waterskin. He bumped shoulders with Andrew, and said, “Next time, I’m gonna water the horses, and you can set up the tents.”
“Fine by me. You try lifting those water barrels,” they both finished the sentence by imitating Mr. Miller’s famous words, “without spilling a drop.”
Andrew collapsed onto the bottom of the tent. The thick canvas felt strangely comforting.
“Fantastic!” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Three more weeks of this and we’ll be dead.”
“I hope the horses don’t die,” Connor said.
“I hope we don’t die,” Andrew replied.
“Nobody’s going to die!” Mr. Miller said from his tent. “Maybe a couple of horses, but you’ll get over that. Now quit your talkin’ and get some sleep.”
“I love that man,” Connor whispered sarcastically.
“Yeah, me too.”
It was late afternoon when Mr. Miller shook the boys’ tent. “Let’s go. Andrew, you’re on horses. Connor, let’s pack it up.”
Andrew stretched his arms, and said, “My shoulders are killing me. How are you holding up?”
“My face is burned, my shoulders are raw and, oh yeah, I’m also missing a toe!” he joked, pushing Andrew against the side of the tent and hustling out the open flap.
Mr. Miller was repacking the horses. His arms were stretched out securing the bundles and Connor shuddered at the sight of the scars.
“How long are we gonna go for this time?”
Without turning, he tightened a strap, and replied, “We’re gonna walk until midnight.”
Andrew came out of the small tent, and said, “Midnight?!”
Mr. Miller finished tucking in the strap, then turned and faced the boys. He seemed thinner and somehow frailer than he had only days ago. He barely opened his mouth, and snarled, “Midnight! Unless you want to die out here! You think we’ve got enough supplies to do this on foot? That wagon and all those supplies we left back there, what did you think those were for? Do you have any idea where we are right now? Do either of you think this isn’t going to be the single hardest thing you’ve ever done?! We’ve got three weeks of walking in this god forsaken Wasteland and today is day one.”
Connor’s eyebrows shot up, and Andrew walked over to the packhorses. Pulling out the watering bags, he turned to Mr. Miller, and said, “But you said we’d be there in three weeks, and we left ten days ago.”
“Yeah,” Connor insisted.
Mr. Miller slowly raised his scarred arm, holding up two fingers. He looked at Connor, then at Andrew and fixed his gaze on the horizon.
“First,” he announced, wiggling one of his fingers, “it took us longer to get to the Wastelands than it should have. Longer by two days. Second,” he wiggled his other finger, “in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re on foot! That adds at least four days if not more to our little adventure. Today is day one, and it’s gonna be at least a three-week haul. Now get your jobs done and let’s get moving.”
The cool desert night never set in and five punishing hours later, their packs finally hit the sand for the last time. Their shoulders were full of ache, and their shirts were stained with blood. For more than half an hour, the boys just sat; weary, light headed, and sore.
Mr. Miller unpacked the horses and set up camp. He took care of all the countless details including the tack line, digging pads for the tents, setting up the tents, unpacking the cooking gear and gathering what he could to make a fire.
With his flint and steel, Mr. Miller began throwing sparks at the small bundle of dried sticks. As the tinder began to smoke, Andrew asked Connor, “How are we going to do three more weeks of this?”
“It doesn’t matter because I’ll be dead in three weeks,” Connor muttered, sounding exhausted and utterly defeated.
Mr. Miller walked over and knelt down behind them. He peeled back their blood stained shirts, and they winced as the fabric pulled away from their shoulders. He flipped the thin fabric back over their shoulders declaring, “That’s nothing boys. You’ll be good to go by tomorrow night.”
Connor reached for his shoulder to rub at the ache, but when his hand touched the ruined skin, he took a sharp breath and dropped his hand back to the sand.
“How do you figure?!” Connor yelled angrily. “I can hardly move my shoulders and even if I could put my pack on, I’m so tore up I don’t think I could walk ten minutes.”
Andrew was just as discouraged, and in a questioning but calm voice, he asked, “How are we gonna make it three weeks out here; especially when day one has knocked us down so hard?”
Mr. Miller stood up, stepped between the boys and knelt again. He was smiling.
Andrew looked at Mr. Miller and saw the same bloody patches on his shoulders. Andrew looked him in the eye, but Connor punched the sand and grumbled with his head down, “Three weeks. We’re not gonna make it three days!”
Mr. Miller dipped his hand under Connor’s chin and raised his head until their eyes met. “We’re all going to make it. You’re forgetting something. You both are.”
In a few seconds, Mr. Miller could see the flicker of understanding in Andrew’s eyes. A smile crept onto his face, and Mr. Miller winked at him.
“I don’t know what you’re both smiling about! I think you’ve gone crazy!” Connor shouted. He started to stand up, but Mr. Miller put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, easing him back to the sand.
“Why don’t you tell him, Andrew?”
“Yeah, why don’t you tell me, Andrew?!”
Smirking, Andrew turned to Connor, and said, “Your shoulder doesn’t look nearly as bad as your toe use to.” He waited to see if Connor would catch the connection.
“My toe? What are you talking about, my toe is finnnnne...” With a grin and a huge sigh of relief, he said, “Oh, thank goodness! The book!”
Mr. Miller clapped them on their shoulders. As they winced, he stood up saying, “We’ll all be better in no time! We’ll get some food in us, then we’ll all sit around and read our little book.”
Supper slowly stewed above the small fire as the boys tried to relax. Without a single complaint, Mr. Miller peeled his shirt off, taking more skin with it than he had intended. The moonlight cast faint shadows around the camp, allowing the boys to see the full extent of his scars. The twisted, uneven, purple skin ran from his wrists all the way up to his shoulders. It was hard to look at, even at night.
It was around two in the morning when they had all eaten their fill, and the fire had burned down to embers. Mr. Miller’s coffee pot gently puffed steam as it hung low over the coals. The boys were sitting in the sand next to the fire listening to the sounds of the night. Mr. Miller sat opposite them quietly sipping his coffee and smoking his pipe.
Connor moved his shoulders up and down with a grimace, then tried rolling them in circles. “When do you want to start looking at the book?” he asked. “My shoulders could sure use some help.”
Mr. Miller blew a ring of smoke at the fire pit, and it held its form nicely. When it reached the lazy trail of smoke coming off the coals, it slowly stretched out until it was pulled into the night sky. He tapped his pipe on the palm of his hand, looked at the little gray mass and dropped the ashes onto the sand.
He took a deep breath that turned into a yawn, stretched his arms wide and let it out, saying, “I can’t figure out how to block the Light. I doubt there’s anyone around to see it, but I’m not foolish enough to take that chance. We certainly don’t want any visitors.”
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Andrew said. “I thought we could use the saddle blankets to cover up one of the tents. What do you think?”
Stuffing his pipe back into the small pouch around his waist, he said, “Maybe. Actually, that’s about all I could come up with too.”
Neither of them asked Connor. They knew he wouldn’t have thought about it.
Mr. Miller leaned back, digging his hands into the warm sand and looking up at the sky. “The quarter moon we had is gone for the night. Whatever light we make will be obvious from miles away, but I don’t see as we have much of a choice. Since we’re gonna be totally exposed out here, this is how it’s gonna work. Connor, you’re going to go first. Andrew, you’ll be blindfolded with him in the tent, and I’ll be out here with the shield on my arm just in case we get company.
Connor, you’re gonna have to be tied up with your arms behind you. We don’t want any problems. Andrew, you know what to do. Start him out on page seven and remember to keep your blindfold on and your back to the book. Try not to fall asleep either. Are we clear?”
Two heads nodded.
“Good. Andrew, if you hear anything from me, it’s either time to close the book, or we have company. Either way, it’s time to close the book when you hear my voice. The way I figure it, we all need around three hours. Connor, you’re first. Andrew, you’re second. Then Connor will be in the tent with me while I finish and Andrew, you’ll keep watch with the shield.”
Two heads nodded again.
Connor hopped up, and said, “I’ll get the blankets.”
Andrew slowly stood up and stretched. “I’ll get the blindfolds and the cord to bind his hands.”
“Good. I’ll get the book and the shield.”
With less than four hours before first light, Mr. Miller stood watch outside the small tent. He had the shield on his left arm, scanning the black horizon for any sign of movement.
“Go ahead and open the book, Andrew.”
He heard Andrew mumble something to Connor just before the blue-white Light poured out of every hole, stitched seam, and rip in the old tent.
Mr. Miller walked around it pulling the blankets over the little rays of Light. In a few minutes, the only thing to give away their location was the dim glow of a half-buried tent miles and miles out into the most inhospitable area on the planet.
Three uneventful hours later, the boys switched places, and Mr. Miller kept his watch. First light crept slowly into the desert sky. The brilliant stars and the black of night faded to a blue-gray. The gray gave way to subdued orange, which melted into pink, which reddened into sunrise. Mr. Miller stripped the blankets off the tent.
A couple hours after sunrise he called into the tent, “Connor, wake up and close the book!”
When he heard Andrew’s voice, he said, “Set the book aside and come out.”
In seconds, both boys were standing outside the tent with smiles on their faces. Neither was wearing a shirt, and Mr. Miller inspected their shoulders.
“Put your hands on yourselves and tell me how you feel.”
Andrew touched his shoulders and felt the soft, smooth skin. He moved them around in big circles making his arms bob up and down. “It’s fine. They’re fine. My shoulders don’t hurt anymore, and the blisters and cuts are gone.”
“Yup, me too,” Connor said, moving his shoulders up and down.
“Good. Now, Connor, you bind my hands, and I’ll meet you in the tent.”
Connor loosely bound his hands, and the two entered the tent. When they finished shuffling into place, Mr. Miller called to Andrew, “Give me about three hours, and don’t forget to keep an eye out for visitors.”
Andrew responded with a grunt and shook himself a little, bringing him back to the present. “Three hours, I got it. Go ahead and open the book, Connor. I’ve got last watch.”
With the visions from the book swimming in his head, he picked up the shield and gently set it against the side of the tent.
Andrew was so distracted by his thoughts, he wasn’t really sure how long Mr. Miller and Connor had been in the tent. He was also pretty sure a gang of thieves could have walked up behind him, and he wouldn’t have noticed. After what seemed like long enough, he called out to Connor.
Mr. Miller popped out of the tent with his hands still tied. He took a couple of steps and turned his back to Andrew, who quickly freed his wrists. Connor poked his head out of the tent with his blindfold around his neck, and asked, “Do you want the book in your tent Mr. Miller?”
“Bind it up in the oilcloth and hand it out to me. I’ll keep it in my tent with the shield.” He worked his shoulders up and down, rolling them in circles. Reaching up, he felt the new skin, and declared, “Good as new. Did you see or hear anything?”
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Connor stuck the wrapped book out of the tent, and Mr. Miller took it.
Connor yawned and stretched his arms to the sky, saying, “I’m ready for some shut eye.”
“That’s the plan,” said Mr. Miller. “Make sure the horses are fed and watered. When they’re done, you’re done. Get some sleep. If you hear anything, call out. I plan on having a late lunch, we’ll start our day a couple hours before the sun sets. Don’t forget to drink water or the heat will make you sick and we don’t need that.”
Mr. Miller tucked the oversized book under his arm, picked up the shield and disappeared into his tent.