MISQUOTING THE MOON

by David Bartell

Individuals don’t react to global tragedies, but to personal ones…

Asteroid, schmasteroid. Just give me a big gun, and I’ll blast that Big Bastard.

Ted tickled the crosshairs over a rough and undulating gray surface, waiting for the moment to feel right. Each deep crease was tempting, a potential fault where a projectile cleaving to its depths could blow the whole beast apart.

Magnified in his scope, the elephant’s forehead did look a lot like an asteroid. It turned its head to profile. Better a brain shot from the side because the cross-section is bigger, and it meant that it wasn’t charging you, like Big Bastard. Aim for that crease under the ear … There!

He pulled the trigger.

The elephants were going to go extinct anyway.

The double-barreled rifle punched Ted’s shoulder with a butt like brass knuckles and a bark to match. He felt more pain than the elephant did as she dropped like a sack of lead potatoes. She wouldn’t even feel the five tons of knockdown power from the automatic 900 Nitro Express. A torus of yellow dust rolled away from her and broke into the windless air of once-protected Etosha Park, like a lazy smoke ring.

“That was the matriarch,” said Hendrik, Ted’s guide, breaking their silence with a thick Afrikaans accent. “The rest will not know what to do.”

“My plan exactly.”

Hendrik smiled grimly, digging furrows about his mouth. He did not show his age when his face was at rest; his freckled, cinnamon skin was taut until an emotion disturbed it. Then he had five wrinkles for every one of Ted’s, and they squeezed his wide nose. “It is kinder to kill the entire family all at once.”

The other elephants—eight females and two calves—bellowed and bolted, mostly away from Ted and Hendrik. In the days when there were still hundred-pound tusks to be had, one kill was enough.

Things were different now.

Switching to his custom-made rifle, Ted picked off three more of the gals before they made the scrubby trees at the far side of the water pan. Two of the fallen still moved, but he would put them out of their misery soon enough.

His ears rang and the dust choked. “Sorry, old girls. I would have liked to take you with me.”

“No Noah’s Ark.”

“‘Fraid not.” Ted did not put much faith in the DNA banks on the far side of the Moon. And there was no provision for wild animals of any kind. They’d be very lucky just to keep the humans alive indefinitely. Nearly all of the fauna on the Moon was there for that purpose. With great sorrow, the others were marooned in their natural habitats. “Not even starfish shuttles are big enough for elephants.”

The oft-repeated allegory about starfish popped into his head:

Two men on a beach, watching millions of beached starfish slowly dying. One man begins throwing them back into the sea. “You can’t save them all,” his friend objects. “No, but I can save this one,” says the first, tossing a starfish into the surf. “And this one. And this one, and this one….”

That’s how Ted Hathaway felt about culling elephants; he did not enjoy it. Travis had to shoot Old Yeller. Once he made up his mind to do it, he didn’t think about it. Like Hendrik, he didn’t ask any more questions, because he would not like the answers. The skyrocketing ivory trade was the only way he could raise enough money to save a particular part of his own species.

Ka-chow! Ka-chow! Quick mercy.

“I can’t shoot you all,” Ted said as he fired. “But I can shoot you … and you … and you … and you….”

Each shot left ringing echoes in his ears. The asteroid was coming, but the gentle giants would not die forgotten. He would share their moment of loss now and remember it always. If only stopping Big Bastard was as easy as shooting elephants.

Africans of several ethnicities appeared in dusty, battered vehicles—a Volvo and two combis—to help skin the carcasses. A friend of Hendrik’s came with a lorry, which would bring some of the meat back to their families. Ted and Hendrik left them on foot, tracking one injured cow into the bush.

The Sun set rapidly so near the equator, dropping straight down as if of fatigue from baking the salt pans all day, and the lack of clouds made it a brief, orange event. They made camp, ate, and settled by the fire. A distant yelp and then a roar caused Ted to squint into the night, but Hendrik kept his gaze on the retiring flames. The guide seemed as unaffected by the impending catastrophe as the wildlife was. A lion had just made a kill. What else was it supposed to do?

“Why did you come back?” Hendrik said. “You were safe on the Moon.”

“Maybe. There aren’t any lions up there, but I wouldn’t call it safe. They say bits of Big Bastard could pummel the Moon, or that it will send chunks of Earth that way. None of us may escape this one. And the strongholds aren’t as strong as you might think either. They really haven’t solved all the problems of self-sufficient biospheres.”

“But here is certain death. Why come back? For the elephants?”

Ted had to think about answering that one. “They’re not like other animals. When you shoot an elephant, it’s like shooting a dog or a horse. Something inside you dies with them. But something else comes alive. I just wanted one last look at the way things used to be.”

“I understand you.”

Ted laughed. Everyone else had always said just the opposite. Even his biographer had surrendered.

“You’re a very lucky man,” Hendrik said. “You have a rare place in the colonies, and you are still rich enough to come back for one last look around.”

Ted pulled a pipe from his jacket, a bent Rhodesian, supposedly designed by Alfred Dunhill, if not Cecil Rhodes himself. He tamped a Turkish blend of latakia into its bowl. One last chance to smoke.

“Yeah, I’m lucky. I’m lucky that ivory is in high demand now, and that I know how to get it.”

“Why is it in demand?”

Ted watched a tentacle of smoke twist up from his pipe like the shriveled ghost of a very old idea. “Superstition,” he said. “When you want something rare, it stands to reason that to get it, you have to buy it with something equally rare. There are folks who think that ivory is good luck, and that it will somehow get them a spot on the Moon.”

Hendrik looked disappointed. “That’s foolishness.”

“Mmm,” Ted agreed, puffing at his pipe. “They call it the Lunar Lottery, but it’s become lunacy, if you ask me.”

“Then why do you sell the ivory? You don’t need the money.”

“Ah, but I do. Dolores is the reason why.”

“She left you years ago, my friend.”

“If I can purchase a double occupancy upgrade, she’ll have a damn good reason to come back now, won’t she?”

The gibbous Moon rose, and the shimmering Milky Way shied from it. Ted looked for his crater home but could not make it out.

Hendrik tipped his head back, watching the Moon over his nose, mouth agape—not with wonder, but trying to catch a memory. “Moon buggy!” he said. “I remember that from some old documentary. Do you have a moon buggy?”

“Bully for you!” Ted smiled. “Not yet, but you have a good idea at that.”

He inhaled the smoke from the fire. Mopane, spicier than the usual camelthorn acacia—more like mesquite—but more subtle, evoking memories of times and places both good and bad. The odor mixed with his tobacco, and he held it in his nose, eyes closed, to seal the memory.

The white dot of a satellite snuck across the sky, from south to north. Must be polar, he thought. Or a starfish tender. Or a spider-sat spinning a sensor web with which to measure every aspect of asteroid impact. What good would data minutiae do if there wasn’t any planet left to benefit? The money should have been spent on another lunar colony. Hell, they could have even built some kind of zoo on the Moon for the damned pachyderms.

From what Ted understood, they had spent fifty trillion dollars trying to deflect Big Bastard. The gravity tugs and nukes couldn’t keep Big Bastard out of the deadly keyhole the way they had with Apophis in 2037. That “little bastard” didn’t take much to be thrown off by the fraction of a degree needed to steer it clear. A little elbow-to-elbow sashay with the Earth scooted it into a stable orbit around Mars, all as planned. It was brilliant, a crowning achievement for humanity, inspiring renewed respect for the abilities of the species.

But gravity tugs were just too small to exert sufficient force on Big Bastard. A series of attempts were made to use tugs to deflect other asteroids near Big Bastard so that they would in turn draw the target off. Unfortunately, like rodeo clowns failing to distract a bucking bull, they could not keep the horns from goring their victim. Mother Earth was no help either; she was reeling the rock in like a moth that had lassoed her flame. One theory even claimed that Big Bastard had impacted Earth before, ages ago, the result being the formation of the Moon. Ted believed it. Big Bastard was like an old flame, a man-eater; having once tasted the flesh of the Earth, it lusted for more.

The lunar colonies were already being built when the inevitability of the impact was proven with mathematical certitude. Where the hell was his crater, what’s-it-called, anyway?

Then Ted realized what was wrong. He was in the Southern Hemisphere, down under, so the Moon was upside-down in the sky. No wonder it looked familiar and all wrong at the same time. He tilted his head to orient himself to the Moon’s southern pole.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the colonies, but the Moon is upside-down from up north.”

“It’s all relative.”

“It sure is,” Ted said, not because he believed that. He did not believe in relativism (as opposed to relativity) at all, but sometimes you agree with someone to acknowledge not what they say, but that you are all too aware of their point of view.

The Hunter rose, not coincidentally Ted’s favorite constellation. Orion was upside-down too, but being rather symmetric, it almost looked the same. Different in a disconcerting way. Could Orion hunt as well standing on his head? Would he draw his sword in time and slice Big Bastard to pieces? Or would it be he who slings the asteroid at sorry old Earth?

“I suppose I shall never know what the Moon is like,” said Hendrik, “since the positions are all filled.”

“Bah!” Ted tamped his pipe with a burning stick. “It’s not much different from the old Namib.”

“Is that so?”

“But because the gravity is less, the elephants grow much larger.” With that, Ted shot a smoke ring at Hendrik, an old gag between them that placed Hendrik at the center of an undulating target.

Hendrik smiled. “You had me going there. Now, I’ve got one for you.”

“Shoot.”

“There is an old bushman myth that says the Moon is a goddess. Every month, she shrinks and dies, but then comes back to life. She looked down on the Earth and saw the people dying there. She thought to inform them that like her, they would always be reborn. So she sent a hare to deliver this message. But the hare was grieving his mother, who had just passed away, and he deliberately misquoted the Moon. He told the people that once they died, they would come wholly to an end. When the Moon found out what the hare had done, she hit him with a stick, splitting his lip. But she never sent the message again, so to this day, people still believe that death is the end of everything.”

“I thought you didn’t buy the old beliefs.”

“I don’t buy them, but these stories are still told to the children, to teach good behavior. Anyway, they can be entertaining, can’t they?”

Ted laughed.

They watched the Moon quietly until the grunt of a baboon not far off wrenched Ted into a hunter’s alertness. He had already found and drawn his rifle in his mind before the sound registered as harmless.

“You won’t hear that on the Moon,” Hendrik said.

Ted puffed on his pipe and sighed. “No, sir, I won’t.”

“Listen, Ted, I’ve been thinking. You and I are not just tracking that wounded elephant out of mercy, are we?”

“What do you mean?”

Hendrik waved a dismissive hand at the Moon. “Why don’t you forget about going back there? Why don’t you spend your last days where you belong—here in the bush?”

The last time Hendrik had hunted with Ted, Ted took a trophy. There was also a documentary, replayed occasionally on Hendrik’s old pod. That had been part of a program to reduce supernumerary elephants in Damaraland and the Caprivi Strip, globally approved, and organized by the Namibia Professional Hunting Organization. Culling was justified on the basis that the unwary beasts were destroying their own habitat. Of course, discussing the possibility that it was people who were supernumerary was out of the question. Neither drought, mismanagement, nor the culling effect of AIDS could solve that one. Big Bastard, of course, would.

They found the injured cow already dead and so completed their safari. Ted was one of the few who could afford the petrol to run a vehicle, and he departed alone in it, after a heartfelt but restrained good-bye to Hendrik.

Hendrik rode home with his friend Loois, a load of elephant meat in the back. Loois was impressed that Hendrik had been with a hunter of such wealth. Although Hendrik knew the difference, it seemed that to Loois, America was as remote as the Moon itself.

They stopped to trade for some petrol. One whole tusk for a fill-up, a fifty-pounder. Hendrik overheard the man at the petrol station say, “What do they want with petrol these days? They can not drive away from the asteroid!” Well, thought Hendrik, what do they want with ivory?

They slept on the side of the road, and the next afternoon they rolled up the long hill to Windhoek, nearly home. The city was named Windhoek—”windy corner”—for good reason. The relentlessly dry air scudded over the rocky slope like wind over an airfoil, depositing dust over the parched ghettos, which seemed placed to screen the yellow stuff from the bright city on the hill.

The truck attracted some attention when they stopped at a red light in Katatura. Kids flying noisy kites made from flapping plastic bags came to see what the bloody hulk was on the back of Loois’s truck. Women grilling beef patties at a roadside stand glared at the potential competition, and young men came for handouts.

“Hey, Baster, give a little!”

Hendrik ignored the slur. The Basters had long ago made a precarious peace with their mixed origin. They had convinced the world of their pride in the heritage of the name “bastards,” but the social complex held secret by the Basters was just that. Complex. Hendrik was proud but was reminded daily that things had not changed. His ancestors were half Dutch and half African—Nama, actually. When they tried to opt up socially, they were turned down—too black. They helped the Germans fight indigenous people, only to have the Germans later declare war on them. They were run out of South Africa, only to be courted later as a tactic against Namibian independence. Having learned their lesson, they remained neutral—only to find themselves at odds with that new government. Too white.

The Basters once had their own government under colonial rule, which was more than the other “coloureds” could say—never mind the Africans. This too was gone, but Hendrik was reminded of it every time he looked at his children. His son Oscar was darker than his daughters, so Hendrik had to push the boy that much harder, to help him overcome his disadvantage.

“Give a little, Baster!”

So the insult did hurt, but he gave the man a few dollars anyway. Why shouldn’t he? He’d been paid astronomically by Ted Hathaway. And it was better to be a beacon of light than to waste money on beer and cigarettes. These poor fellows were doomed like everyone else, so they might as well have a little happiness.

“Listen, son,” he told the young man, as he pressed a few dollars into his hand. “Use it wisely. No drugs or women, do you hear?”

“What do you care, Baster?”

Hendrik felt his head grow hot. “You think that because the world is going to end that your behavior does not matter? This is precisely the time when God is paying attention to you.”

“Go on, old man! Your light is green.”

“You will be judged.”

Loois dropped Hendrik off at his house in Khomasdal. His wife Sarah greeted him on the cinder stones of the yard as the retreating Sun traced its last shadows on the low block wall around their house. They did not embrace outside. Loois helped him unload some of the meat and left.

“How is the black one?”

“Hendrik, I tell you, our son is dying.”

Hendrik looked down at her feet. “I know. It doesn’t matter as much now, though.”

Sarah’s brows charged at him. “How can you say that?”

He threw his arm to the heavens. “That damned asteroid!”

“Big Bastard, they call it,” she said, watching the orange clouds turn gray. “It’s like us Basters, alone in the heavens.”

“Woman, what are you talking about?”

“Maybe it’s God’s way of sending us a message.”

Hendrik recalled his words to the beggar at the intersection. You will be judged. Now those words drew bile in his throat. “Sarah, do you understand that this is just a little more than a message?”

“Oscar is very ill. That’s a fact. You just came back with meat and money from hunting. That’s a fact. The girls are bringing their families to see what you brought. Fact. The newspaper says that our traditional Parental Laws have been officially nullified by Rehoboth, and a shooting star might break the world in two. As far as I am concerned, those are just rumors. What will you do, act on the facts, or on rumors?”

“Let’s eat,” he said, wondering why they should even bother.

Now that Ted was gone, Hendrik returned to his retirement. There was nothing for him to do but go volunteer at the Lutheran church. There were a lot of things to do in the church, a newly painted rectangular building on a hill at the edge of Vaalhoek with a view of the highway to Windhoek. On Sundays there were three different services, each in a different language—Afrikaans for the Basters, Oshiwambo, and Herero. Hendrik spoke all three (as well as English) and so volunteered as a deacon to the troubled congregations.

Life seemed to go on as usual, with the exceptions of Oscar careening through an ever-changing and bewildering set of symptoms and ever-more dominant news coverage about Big Bastard. Hendrik and Sarah fed their son, kept him warm, aired out his room, and Hendrik took note of a Bible passage about earth, fire, air, and water. These basics to life were no different for his ancestors in the bush or back in the Netherlands than they were to Oscar or to Ted and the other colonists on the Moon.

Life went on as usual—things in Namibia were not progressing at all, and therefore Hendrik felt that he and his people were quite unworthy. He thought of Ted often and talked to the Moon from time to time. “Live well, Ted. You deserve to survive our judgment day.”

One Sunday, Reverend Diergaardt quoted scripture in his sermon, a disturbing passage, in the context of Big Bastard.

But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.

After the Afrikaans service, and before the Ovambo, Hendrik helped Diergaardt count the offering in the office closet. He used the opportunity to express his concern.

“Die Bybel tells us that he who endures to the end will find salvation. How can this be? Does it mean that only those on the Moon when the end comes will be saved?”

“Of course not,” said Diergaardt. “You are confusing survival with salvation. Two different things altogether. According to God’s mercy will we be truly saved.”

“I know one of the Moon men, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“A very brave man. It is those men of men that will survive, while the meek shall inherit the Earth. We inherit it, like a hand-me-down. And then our hand-me-down will unravel, just like that!” Hendrik threw his hands out and twiddled his fingers like cosmic debris.

Diergaardt smiled. “I don’t blame you for being dramatic. But don’t forget the Exodus, my friend. The Lord, having saved the people out of the land of Egypt, afterward destroyed them that believed not.”

A shuffling of hard soles on the painted cement floor outside stopped Diergaardt short. He held up his hand for silence. “There have been thieves about,” he whispered in Hendrik’s ear. Then he called out a hello.

A deep voice with an American accent replied. “I’m looking for Hendrik Izaaks.”

“Come in.”

“I was told I might find you here.” The American was fairly tall and sturdily built, bearded, with sandy blond hair traced with gray. Hendrik had to study the face for a moment before recognizing Ted Hathaway. “How are you, Hendrik?”

“Ted! I am fine, and yourself?”

“Never better!”

“I didn’t recognize you with the beard.”

“It’s a royal pain shaving on the Moon. Not allowed to get whiskers all over the place.”

Hendrik introduced his old friend to Reverend Diergaardt and looked at Ted with great pleasure. “It is impossible to leave Mother Earth behind after all, isn’t it?”

Ted smiled, not an affirmation, but Hendrik found it harder to read the face of a man with a full beard and mustache. “Sure it is.”

“So you have decided to stay behind. There isn’t any big game left, or so they say. No one really knows, because there’s not enough petrol to find out. Even so, if you want to try….”

Ted stood so still, it called to mind times when the two of them would crouch motionless, watching game grazing upwind. Then he suddenly loosened up and fluffed up a hairy smile. “You know me!” he said, and he clapped Hendrik on the shoulder. “But no, let’s talk about it over dinner. Is that place we used to eat still any good?”

Hendrik looked at Diergaardt, who was locking the closet, pretending not to be paying attention.

“It’s become a beer hall.”

“Shame. That’s the last thing we need. Let’s go into Windhoek, then, my treat! We’ll take your family.”

Hendrik and Ted ate alone in a five-star hotel restaurant. Sarah had to stay home to tend to Oscar and insisted that the men go alone. The girls lived in another town and were absorbed with their new families. Ted had an ostrich steak, and frugal Hendrik had chicken. Hendrik did not drink but toasted by meeting Ted’s beer with something he hadn’t afforded in months—ice water.

Ted drank deeply. “Listen, my old friend, I have something monumental to tell you.”

“I will be delighted to hear you confirm my suspicions, that you are staying.”

Ted wiped froth from his furry face. “Not a chance, mister. I hate to burst your bubble, but as much as I love Mother Nature, I love myself more. Not many people have a chance like I do, so I have to be willing to take it—take the chance that I can get along without her.”

Hendrik put down his water and wished he could see through those whiskers. He knew Ted so well—Ted even said so—and he had hoped that his friend might stay. Now that he thought of it, having Ted around would actually become complicated. Ted had no one and would be happy slogging through the last embers of the Namib when the end came and the sand turned to slag. But Hendrik had a family, and his fantasy of dusty days and starry nights in the bush suddenly fell apart. He splayed his hands out, and then his fingers.

Ted either made a grim face or smiled. “What would you say if I told you I got a seat for you on a starfish?”

“A seat on a starfish?”

“And a room on the Moon, of course.”

Hendrik laughed anyway, nervously. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

“You were right earlier.” Ted took another deep draught of his beer. “I can’t stay away. But this has to be my last look around, no two ways about it. While I was here, I figured I’d deliver the news in person.”

“But what about your ex-wife? I thought you were trying to take her with you.”

“Old Dolores would have none of me. Especially when I told her I’d shot a whole herd of elephants just for her!”

Hendrik felt overwhelmed and muddled. “You are serious. How can this be true?”

“First, I am in a position to pull a few strings. Second, I can think of no one I’d rather do a favor for. You did save my life once or twice.”

Hendrik gazed at a kudu head mounted on the wall and smiled. Ted had been too eager once and had made a grave mistake. He had ventured into tall grass with his rifle held up, which gave the lion a chance to get between him and his weapon. Hendrik had kept his gun at his hip and took the lion out. “Who would have thought it of the son of a Baster bricklayer?”

“Hmm,” said Ted, waving for another beer. “I would.”

“So you bought me a room on the Moon. But why would they let me go? I haven’t taken any qualification tests.”

“Not a problem. I got you entered as prescreened. Besides, things are pretty confused these days. Just show up, tell them you are Hendrik Izaaks, and you’ll be on your way!”

“Won’t they—”

“It’s all arranged.” Ted winked. “No one will ask any questions.”

Hendrik’s mind fogged, and he felt as though it was he that had drunk the beer. It took a stable mind a long time to get used to the idea that the Earth would soon be hammered like a mongongo nut. He had no idea how to deal with this development.

“There’s more,” said Ted, offering Hendrik his second beer. Hendrik shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull those strings, except for one thing.”

“What is that?”

“A couple from Keetmanshoop who were slated to go were killed in a riot. The UN diversity pool was thrown out of balance.”

“A couple? Do you mean to say that—”

“I’m very, very sorry, my friend. Even I’m not that rich. I could only get one seat. But listen, my final ace was that you represent not only Afrikaaner blood, but also Nama. There is not a single Nama, or even close relative, on the Moon.”

Hendrik thought about the old lion attack and about the obscene culling he had helped Ted with. Now this. Tears were running down deep cracks that had rent his smooth skin, and he wiped his forehead with a linen napkin. Despite the killing, Ted was a sort of Noah after all, taking life, and giving it, more than any man should ever be able to. Hendrik never told Ted how ashamed and heartbroken he had been after shooting all those elephants, but he remained loyal, and this was his reward.

It felt like blood money, but was it? There was the inescapable fact that the elephants were going to die anyway. Also, the ivory gave some hope to people, however false. Moreover, some hungry people were fed in their passing; the elephants died a nobler death for that, at least. In the future, looking back, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

No, thought Hendrik. No. It makes a difference now. It’s not the death that condemns a man, but the killing.

Ted saw the tears and laughed encouragingly. “Now you see why my news is just as hard to deal with as you and I gallivanting in the bush together?”

“I would have to leave my family.”

Ted nodded and stood up. “No pressure from me,” he said. “It’s all up to you. If you don’t want to go, I’d understand that.”

Hendrik stammered. “I don’t know … what to say.”

“You might not even like the Moon, but think of this. You would be carrying your Baster blood forward for your people. Otherwise, it’s gone forever.”

“Whew!” Hendrik stared into his napkin, eyes unfocused.

“Be right back,” said Ted, going off to the men’s room.

When one is granted the opportunity, not of a lifetime, but of the Ages, one’s choice makes him either a sensible man or a fool. Hendrik could remarry and become the new patriarch of his proud race. Perhaps his descendants would return to Earth someday and mend what was left of it. But how could he leave his family in their greatest time of need? Not just that, but he wanted to be with them more than he wanted his own life. They were his flesh and blood, his soul, and they meant far more to him than his conflicted people.

Ted left the Earth for good, leaving Hendrik with tickets, money, contacts, and other instructions. Everything was arranged. They would arrive at different colonies and would likely never see each other again.

Hendrik sat up evenings, unable to sleep. He had not told his family of Ted’s offer. He felt he had to spare his family from the torture that was his alone. He stared at the blank television screen, toying with the remote out of habit. They hadn’t had service for a year, though they occasionally resorted to watching pod recordings, like the documentary about culling the elephants up in Caprivi. Lately though, Hendrik could not bear to watch that one.

Now the most frightening spectacles played out on the dark glass. He imagined desperation, violence, minds growing dim in masses, people turning against one another, fists shaking, and murder. Big Bastard might not kill anyone, because they might kill each other first.

Oscar coughed, and Hendrik heard Sarah tend to him. Oscar was the dark one, the one with HIV, the shame of the household. If he did not love his son, he would have thrown him out for this disgrace—but he did love him. The boy was brilliant, his sisters were brilliant, and he was proud of his Sarah for raising them so well in this hostile place—the land they said God made in anger.

He could not let them face that anger alone when it returned. He could not live in a tin can on the Moon—a place even worse than the Namib—drinking recycled urine, watching Big Bastard butcher the world like so much meat, thinking of his family screaming as some distant continent buckled onto Namibia, dropping cities on them.

I can’t save my family or the proud heritage of my people, he thought. I can’t save our beloved, mixed-up blood.

Hendrik stood up slowly, unlocked the burglar bars on the sliding door, and stepped onto the patio. A stack of cinderblocks stood by the laundry shed. He picked one up and brought it back inside. He relocked the door.

He turned off the imaginary television image using the cinderblock as a remote—he threw it into the screen. The old tube shrieked and imploded like the crack of a rifle. Glass rebounded outward, and the gray block thudded to the rug like a dead elephant.

Sarah shouted in panic.

“It’s okay!” Hendrik called as he rushed down the hallway to meet her.

Sarah lit a candle and sat on a painted wooden chair at the head of Oscar’s bed.

“What is going on?” she said, the flame’s reflection rolling back and forth across her wide eyes.

Like the elephants, like most everyone, Oscar was going to die soon anyway. Looking back, of course, it would all seem the same—that was Ted’s philosophy. But no, it wasn’t the same, not now. Decisions are not made in the future.

Hendrik wrinkled his brow and let it go again with an audible exhale through drawn lips. “Whew!” He swept Ted, the elephants, and even Big Bastard from his thoughts. “Sarah, get the boy ready for a long journey.”

Sarah started to get up, as if pulled upward by her raised eyebrows. Confused hope was wringing away her look of fear.

Oscar sat up. “Am I going for some new treatment?”

“No.” Then Hendrik thought about it. He knew nothing of the medical facilities in the colonies. Far be it from him to misquote the Moon. “Well, it’s possible.”

Sarah’s eyes had the intensity they had on their wedding day. He smiled at her and took his son’s hand.

“Son, listen to me. You are going on a journey, and you must use my name. From now until the end, you must call yourself Hendrik Izaaks.”

Copyright (c) 2006 Dave Bartell