Free The Rosetta Codex by Richard Paul Russo Page B

said he knew where water was, knew the way east to the Divide, so Cale had followed. Now they were in the middle of a barren desert—not as vast and desolate as the wasteland the caravan had embarked upon, but hotter and drier, and at the moment promising to be just as deadly—with no signs of water, and nothing hopeful in sight. The shortest way, Sproul had said. The quickest.Across this small strip of desert, north and east to the low hills barely visible on the horizon. It would save several days of travel, Sproul had said, and he knew where they could find water on the way if they needed it.
    â€œWater,” Cale said again.
    â€œNot a problem,” Sproul finally replied. “I know where it is.” But he did not open his eyes, did not move, and said no more.
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    Cale squatted beside Sproul and regarded the fevered face, the trembling eyelids and cracked lips. Sproul was dying; he probably knew it as well as Cale did. They were both waiting for him to die.
    Sproul opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused, or focused on something far beyond Cale. “I’m being punished for my brother,” he said.
    â€œYou told me you didn’t kill him.”
    â€œMight as well have. He didn’t want to come here, he didn’t want any treasure. He was happy with his zoological studies and his fossil collection, his quiet life. But I couldn’t do it . . .” He stopped, shutting his eyes tightly against some spasm of pain. He gasped, coughed, then resumed. “I couldn’t do it alone, so he came with me, and now he’s dead.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault,” Cale said. He wasn’t sure that he believed that, but he wanted to comfort Sproul, ease his suffering.
    He opened Sproul’s canteen and reluctantly trickled what was left into the dying man’s mouth. Sproul’s lips quivered, and his dark and swollen tongue convulsed, made a choking, sucking noise.
    Cale glanced at his water bottles, wondering how much, if any, of his own water he would spare for a man who would soon be dead. Two of the four bottles were empty, and a third was less than half full. He had no idea how many days it would take to find water; without Sproul’s guidance, Cale did not know where to begin looking. Turning back to Sproul, Cale realized he wanted the man to die quickly. He understood why, but the thought still produced a terrible ache of guilt deep inside him.
    The afternoon sun had worked its way around the large stone slab and now touched the top of Sproul’s head, highlighting his hair with a golden sheen. Cale remained motionless, locked in place by an inertia born of despair, and watched the sun slowly, inevitably advance across Sproul’s hair until at last it touched his feverish skin. Then Cale finally moved, took hold of Sproul’s boots, and gently dragged him back into the shade.
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    â€œWhere do I go for water?” Cale asked, barely able to keep from shouting it at him. Then in a whisper added, “Damn you, anyway.” He wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask. He had asked Sproul the same question four or five times over the last two days, and never got an answer.
    He could not wait any longer, or he would die, too. Cale set out from their camp in search of water—a spring or pool, even a seep of some kind, anything at all. He traveled in a spiral, working his way outward, searching the ground, the faint shadows of stones and scrub, shallow depressions and draws.
    Cale was surprised when, three hours later, he cameacross a deep, circular pit, at the bottom of which lay a small pool of water. He stood at the rim of the pit, looking down on the water. He had not really expected to find any; he had expected to die a dry and painful death.
    On hands and feet, he slid down the steep bank and crouched beside the pool. He didn’t bother testing the water; he didn’t want to know if it wasn’t safe, for he had no choice. Cale