The Dustcloud Two

I'm remembering the Dustcloud Two, and how I abandoned them in an old notebook on some page in the middle. I bet they're pretty lonely. Sometimes I wonder if, when I close the book, suddenly there are wide-open plains, deserts, cacti, a little ranch in the middle of it all. I never named the Dustcloud Two - personal names, I mean, not titles. I don't even really know who they are. Are they tumbleweeds? Are they lizards? If they're lizards, in my mind I picture them wearing little cowboy hats, and sheriff stars... and neckerchieves, maybe. Maybe they're lizards in boy scout uniforms. Maybe they only imageine that they're the Dustcloud Two. Maybe they're just playing a game, making things up as they go along, confused and often frightened but always pressing on. Maybe their names are really Francis and Jonathan, and they've lost their way in the expanses of my mind. I don't know. I don't know if they're lonely in that closed desert of a notebook. Do they angrily kick the long, low, white fences when they think of me? Do they make elaborate plans of escape only to be confronted with cliffs and canyons on the outskirts that disappear into mist? I wonder.

The Dustcloud Two ride from the Alta Plain at four o'clock on a Thursday. They know it is four o'clock from the way the shadows of the cacti grow longer, reaching out towards the East. They know East by the broken compass around one of their necks. The don't know it is Thursday. They are riding out to escape the brush, the sand, the cacti and the long, low white fences... white, even though they're dusty, dusky, covered with sand and tumbleweekds caught on them, big tumbleweeds rolling across the ground, mirroring clouds rolling across the sky. The Dustcloud Two ride alongside them, pretending that they're cattle stampeding. There are no cattle on the Alta Plain. There are only the ants, ever present, crawling in definite lines across the Plain and out into the distance. The Dustcloud Two envy their easy way out. Navigating the unbroken lines of the fences, they ride North from the Alta Plain, scanning the horizon with gritty eyes. Twice in three days they have hit the Fifth Canyon (which is really the only canyon), which loops and loops around the Plain and cuts off their escape. Each time they gaze down into the Canyon with longing, cursing their slender hands (too slim for gripping), and riding off in the opposite direction again.

Today is different, the two say to eachother, in turn. At four o'clock on a Thursday, the Dustcloud Two ride North from the Alta Plain for miles, until they hit the Fifth Canyon's third bend and slowly dismount. Their ponies are sweaty, dirty, and tired, the shiny star brand on their flanks dulled with many days of travel. They whinny to the Dustcloud Two to go home, wash the dust from their backs, eat cornbread and gopher and fall asleep in front of the fire. The Dustcloud Two pat their ponies. Not now, they whisper. Not yet. Dreaming of the South, where legend says the grasses are longer and the riverbeds not dry, the ponies become silent.

The Dustcloud Two begin to prepare for their climb. Filling their rucksacks with food from the saddlebags, each check's the other's clumsily tied knots before nodding gravely. They lean over the edge of the Canyon, guaging the depth and height. Of course, this is impossible to do. The Dustcloud Two look at eachother, and one briefly wonders what lies at the Canyon's bottom. At the same time, the other tentatively puts his foot on the first ledge, gripping with his toes. He looks up, grinning, just before the ledge crumbles beneath him. He slips and gropes at the edge of the Canyon, his slender fingers just barely holding on, the ill-fastened pack sliding off his back into thin air. The second leaps forward frantically and pulls him up, the front of their shirts rusted with sand. Rope, the first one pants. We need rope.

That night the Dustcloud Two saddle up their ponies and ride back home. Exhausted, trembling, the first falls into bed and lies awake. He begins to grown sullen with shame and disappointment. The second stands at the front of the porch, alone with his thoughts. Not even the stars know what he's thinking.

At Dawn the first rises to find the second still standing on the porch. Wordlessly, they pack up and ride out into the Plain. At 3 o'clock they hit the Fifth Canyon's fourth bend and slowly dismount. Here the soil is hard and sunbaked, cracks splitting off and forming ant-sized canyons of their own. The Dustcloud Two stare at eachother, not knowing what to do. The first flicks out his tongue and snaps up an ant crawling on his cheek. The other stands and surveys the Canyon, hands on his hips. After moments of silence, the first one smacks his lips nervously. What are you looking for? he asks. Don't know, answers the second... Something. The first sighs and begins kicking pebbles into the crevasse. Quietly, the second starts to hum. The first snorts, mumbles to himself about pointlessness and why do they even try. The second doesn't know why he has begun to sing. He does not know where he learnt the song. Ignoring his companion, he begins to sing louder. The ponies shuffle their feet in rhythm. Even the first begins kicking stones in time with the haunting music, his spurs jingling on ever third beat. The second closes his eyes and sees a column of ants climbing up to the sky. He sees the bleached corpse of a mous beneath the shadow of a giant cacti. He sees hundreds of lizards lying on dry stones, lifting their open mouths for rain. He sees the skeleton of the horse beside him lying in mealy darkness. He sees the anger and frustration of his partner, reaches out, and eats it. It pierces his tongue like a cactus spine. He sees a riverbed flood, swell, drain, and crack under the harshness of the desert. He sees dusty footprints going on and on into the distance. He sees the horizon blur, clear, and blur again. He sees a butterfly with more colors than heaven descending to a pool forming in the cracks of the earth. The desert in the sky, and the sky in the desert. He sees his heart wriggling inside his ribcage like a throbbing, red, wide-eyed fish. The second gasps, opens his eyes, and a Gila monster swallows the sun. In the darkness, it begins to rain.