Story #46
The High Priestess
Fifty or so years ago, the bombs had stripped Earth’s surface. The planet still rotated, but poles had shifted, weather patterns changed. Wind dominated above ground, and any potable water that remained lay hidden deep below. Tangibles, like skyscrapers were reduced to rubble, structures that had upheld technology, failed. She was sure there must have been grandiose dreams of building back, but there were neither the tools or the resources to do so. The human race had slid into a routine of survival.
The land in what had formerly been known as the United States was now a desert landscape. Mountains, stripped of vegetation, were worn by unforgiving winds that continually reshaped the terrain. No oceans touched its former shores. Rain had not fallen since the wipe-out. Most survivors had opted for subterrain habitation to avoid radiation and the harsh elements. Those that did venture above became opportunists, or pirates, of some sort. Water was the gold of the era, but trading for, or taking, what other few resources were available became big business for some.
Analee had been born into this world, barren and bleak, but with nothing else to compare it to, she found extraordinary beauty and adventure all around her, sometimes baffling the oldtimers, who still remembered, and longed for, the richness of their youth. She saw the miracle and potential of the tiniest cactus, clinging to life, collecting and hoarding its own water supply. She admired the tenacity and the delicacy of a mesquite, pushing its lace-like leaves out from the crevice between two rocks. Her best friend was a Gila Monster, a great hulking orange and black beaded reptile, that liked to perch on her shoulder.
“Don’t you know that thing’s poisonous?” someone had once asked her.
She’d smiled, and replied. “Only through patience. That’s what I admire about him.” She’d learned that the beast had to grind in its poison. It didn’t spit poison, or strike with incredible speed, which meant that in order to get poisoned by it, you’d have to have really been persistent in bugging him, or he’d had time to calculate his revenge.
Her mentor, Treager, had laughed when she’d first put the baby lizard on her shoulder and named it Ralphie.
“Strange pet for an equally unusual little girl,” he’d smiled, ruffling her orange curls that formed a halo above her cocoa-colored, freckled cheeks.
“We’re alike,” she’d insisted. “He gets me.”
