A Day in the Nightlands

            The fourth stash had been a little trickier than the others. The cold winds that blew through the Nightlands had torn off the bright green flag Milton’s benefactor had attached to the marker. Milton was somewhat tired just from the effort of walking through the desert, and his muscles ached, but all told, he was not in any great discomfort. His benefactor seemed to have plotted Milton’s course out in painstaking detail, so every time the water in his bottles got low, he found a new stash with additional supplies.

            The identity of Milton’s benefactor remained a mystery. He was relatively certain that “D” stood for “Diplomat,” the shadowy figure who had provided Milton both with the foul “coffee” that had revealed the faceless man, and the knife that he had employed to make his escape. Yet even if this theory were correct, it gave him little information. He had never seen the Diplomat’s face, and had only felt a leather glove when he had touched his hand. All he truly had of the Diplomat was his voice. Beyond that, he knew nothing.

            Overhead, the sun passed through the night sky. It was still painful to look at, but the illumination it granted was only equivalent to a full moon. Here in the Nightlands, the sun was content to share the sky with the other, more distant stars. The periods of time that should have been called days were no warmer than the true nights. Milton had never really felt the depth of the sky before – the array of stars, that so often looked flat, like a dome with points of light set in it, was somehow more clearly a vast, vast, space.

            And up, in the center of the sky, he could see the thin, gossamer thread the Ancient Arizradna called “The Path of Aeoes,” marking the trajectory the Creator had traveled from the center of the universe to the Earth, which they called “Sarona-Ki,” meaning, roughly, “solid ground.”

            He’d been walking for several hours, and the sun was setting. Despite the temperature remaining the same, the sun’s passage did serve to mark time relatively well. Milton found a decently flat place to set down and spread out on his back.

            “You dead?” Milton awoke with a start at the sound of the voice. It was not familiar. He pulled the knife the Diplomat had given him from its sheath and held it at the ready.

            The man who had spoken jumped back in surprise. “Easy there, easy. Just checking to see you’re alive.” The man had an accent, though Milton could not easily place it. It was as if the man spoke deeply and from his belly, despite not having much of a belly at all. He was very thin and very tall, and wore only a sort of brown kilt, a beaded mantle over his shoulders, and dark sunglasses. He leaned on a long staff that sunk somewhat into the sand.

            “Who are you?”

            The man nodded in a polite bow. “Senjib is my name.”

            “Mine is Milton… er, Jack Milton.”

            “Hello Jack Milton. Are you lost here?”

            Milton propped himself up. The man looked old, but still capable of giving him a good thrashing with that staff. “No.”

            “I travel the Nightlands, looking for travelers who have gone astray. In the Daylands, there is not much hope. Those of water soon dry up, and I am too often too late. In the Nightlands, though, those of water may yet live, so I search here and bring them to the village of the Arizradna to the northwest.”

            “Those of water?”

            “Like yourself. The desert is a dry place for one so wet.”

            Milton stood up. Sand fell from his clothes. The sand here was incredibly fine, just shy of being powder, and it was cool. “Why the hell are you wearing sunglasses?”

            “These are the Nightlands.”

            “Exactly.”

            Senjib smiled and nodded. “That is why. Where are you going? A man of water should not journey through the desert alone.”

            “Well, as it happens, I’m going northwest.”

            “This is good! We will walk together.”

            The strange, tall man began to walk. He seemed to walk through the desert as easily as Milton would on a paved sidewalk. Milton struggled a bit to keep up, but Senjib soon noticed this and adjusted his pace accordingly.

            They’d been walking for a few minutes when Milton decided to try again. “So, the sunglasses. I’m still a bit confused.”

            “I must not let my light shine on the Nightlands. It would show disrespect.”

            “Your light?” And then it suddenly made sense. “Wait, so by ‘those of water,’ you meant human?”

            Senjib nodded. “Yes.”

            “Which makes you…?”

            “I am of the Djinn.”

            That explained it. Milton had heard stories ever since he was a child about the Djinn. Instead of liquid blood, it was said that fire burned in their veins, and that the light of that fire shined out of their eyes. But there was another part that didn’t fit: “I’m confused. The stories all say that the Djinn died out.”

            “Well, Jack Milton, look at me. Those stories are bullshit.” He laughed deeply, making a sound that did not seem possible from his slender frame. Looking at Senjib and knowing what he was, Milton was struck by the sudden realization that his skin was a dark greenish blue. Previously he’d written off the strange hue as a result of the pale illumination of the Nightlands, but now this too made sense. Senjib continued. “The stories passed down say that there were once many more of us, and that we had great cities throughout the Sarona Desert, but that was many generations ago. There are fewer of us now, but we are not gone.”

            They came across another stash. There was a bit more wind here, and the package itself had been revealed as the sand was blown away. Milton offered Senjib some of the food, but the djinn refused. “Your food is too wet. Besides, I am not hungry.”

            “You’ve been walking for as long as I have.”

            “Yes, but there is a fire in my gut that still burns hot.”

            “Suit yourself.” Milton devoured a piece of cornbread.

            The color of the sky began to turn. It was gradual, almost imperceptible, but soon it became clear that they were leaving the Nightlands. Three hours after Milton had noticed the shift, the sky had returned to its pure, light blue, and the stars were once again hidden.

            They had come across a long line of rocky cliffs. The ground here had hardened, and even little blades of rugged grass poked out. When they came to the last stash, there was a well-worn dirt road nearby. The stash came with another note:

            If you’re still alive (and you are, I hope,) you’ve reached the last of my little care packages. Follow this road north for about four miles (give or take) and you’ll find the town of Harisha. Lovely place. Bit hot, but what can you do? I’ve got you a room at the Maize House Hotel – first class accommodations and one hell of an upgrade from your previous room, I can guarantee that – under the name Zweibel. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to having a chat with you. – D

            Milton rolled up the note and uncovered a package complete with fruits, breads, and an expensive-looking bottle of bluewine.

“Who is it that left this note for you?” asked Senjib.

            “A friend,” said Milton. “I hope.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)