Well, Trained
Flash Fiction
After three days of trekking, the high mountain pass opened to offer him a stunning view of the hazy lowlands. Shimmering heat reflected an image of hope and anticipation. The ramshackle building stood out, stark against the pale, lonely emptiness of the salt flats. A rail track stretched right and left, waiting patiently for the once-a-week arrival that gave this isolated outpost its purpose. In a year of travelling, he would visit nowhere more remote. He smiled, remembering the cheque slid across the desk in the air-conditioned offices of a celebrated travel magazine. The ‘been there, seen-it-all’ editor muttered something about “the rest when you bring us the shot of that train”. The young man had grinned the boyish grin that encouraged ladies of a certain age to pass him drinks from their minibars in hotel suites he could never afford. He’d buy the drinks once he’d wired the image and the bank transfer had cleared. He could almost taste the smug satisfaction of being the guy who snagged the picture. Reputation secured, future guaranteed.
His dry lips cracked as he wiped a ragged sleeve across them. Precious drops of mountain spring water slid down his chin, clinging to a week’s worth of bristles. The heavy rucksack settled onto shoulders still aching from the unexpected let-down of a puncture in his ultralight - ultra useless - sleeping pad. No worries. One hundred miles to the east there were hotels, mattresses, and gentle massages. The thought put a spring in his step as he followed the goat trail toward the valley. Tinkling bells snapped him out of his reverie as an old man and his flock appeared unexpectedly. Irritated, the young traveller ignored the shepherd’s friendly greeting, pushing past the docile animals, prodding and slapping at flanks with his walking pole. The old man’s grizzled jaw tightened; this stranger’s ignorance was at odds with the hospitality that came naturally to local people. The young man’s fractious impatience scattered the flock as he focused on his tightly wound timetable.
Had the condor soaring above the salt plain reported back to a distant control tower, it would have spoken of disharmony playing out far below the tranquility of the thermals that guided its languid patrol. Amidst the slow dips and rises of its gentle explorations, it would have confirmed that humans seemed constantly on the move, their interactions sparking yet more movement. But no such report was passed. The condor gained height and distance, its magnificent wingspan lifting it beyond such urgency, way beyond human trivialities.
“Jesus, what a shithole”.
The words came out aloud but there was no-one to hear them. He kicked a stone against the corrugated tin building, the echo returning to him from the rolling scrublands he had powerwalked through to find himself at this godforsaken jerkwater. There was nothing. Not a bench, nor a ticket office. A wind-chafed poster flapped pathetically, the words a blur, that lifetime membership of a neglected language app berating him in colloquialisms that would always pass him by. He could have ordered a beer in Spanish but there was no bar to saunter up to. He could have shouted slow words in his mother tongue until the frustrated serving girl brought him chola and muttered thanks in English from behind his first bite, eyes on a screen, not the waitress. As it was, he reached into his rucksack for the last of the beef jerky.
The water tower provided the only shade from the searing heat. Years of occasional maintenance had left the raised tank as leaky as a colander but the verdant grass beneath it was cool and welcoming. The expansive salt flats reflected the azure skies, motionless cottonwool clouds leaving the tumbleweed to chase itself around the desert floor. His mesmerised eyes grew heavy, the hard miles through the high hills catching up with him. Drifting, dozing, the soft green tones of the lush green bed cushioned the persistent complaints of his aching muscles.
He dreamt of scudding clouds and soaring birds. He imagined himself gliding down from the mountains, swooping on the train, sinuous in its movements, claws outstretched for its serpentine curves. Plummeting, faster, wings folding. Diving towards his prey, alarm bells sounding as passengers leant out of the windows, voices raised.
A single bell, clanged repeatedly, urgently. He stirred, suddenly awake. The flock was disturbed, plaintive bleating as it scattered, the tinkling of tiny bells at odds with the discordant rattle of the locomotive’s bold announcement of its passage. He trailed belongings from the unsecured opening of his rucksack, panic overtaking order. His sleep-befuddled brain struggled with the unfolding scene. The old man vigorously waved the green flag as the steam train gathered itself for the final one hundred lonely miles. Passengers waved to the last living soul they would encounter until they reached the vibrant terminus, while fragrant female tourists dreamed of handsome adventurers and hotel assignations.
The young man yelled but the train gathered pace, the smartly-uniformed guard waving his farewell from the rail of the final carriage. There was one final piercing call of his whistle, like the mournful cry of a luckless raptor.
“Damn. I mean, what the hell … it didn’t even stop”.
The old man had stowed the green flag next to its faded red companion. A sharp whistle to his dog started the process of gathering his flock around him, his eyes turning to the lengthening shadows in the foothills.
“Hey, old man … HEY … que pasa?”.
Leaning on his hand-carved stick for balance, the shepherd turned deliberately, a man used to taking his time. His smile lit up his whole face, the wrinkles around his eyes speaking of a man with happiness never far from his thoughts. He took in the details of the dishevelled traveller and for a moment, perhaps, he felt sympathy for his plight. But this was an impatient young man and here was an opportunity for change, for learning.
“HEY, shepherd, I mean, why … the flag … you waved the … what the … SHIT”.
The old man shook his head slowly, speaking quietly in perfect English.
“Young man, among other lives I live, I have the honour to be the Station Master of this humble stop. Perhaps I shall see you next week, at the same time”.
I like your stories.
Don't mess with the Station Master. Be kind. Good moral, Barrie!