Free Midian Unmade by Joseph Nassise

dusted with the red earth of some Australian desert or another, Upendra couldn’t remember which: every day, the boy would dust his face with a fresh palmful from a glass bottle he carried in his knapsack. The earth of his people, he called it.
    In many ways, Upendra could appreciate the significance of the dirt in the bottle, given that he himself had now been driven brutally from two of his own homelands. He pined for the smell of both, for the hot and dry terrain of Rajasthan, and for the dank moistness of Midian.
    The road hummed along beneath them. It had a rhythm to it that only long-distance travel can give, that lulls and soothes the soul. The landscape beyond the window looked mean and lifeless, and Upendra felt its concentration on them both as though it were waiting for the moment to open its maw and swallow them alive.
    The wind from the open window ruffled a scrapbook of newspaper clippings on the backseat, the newest of which spoke of a remote angel cult. Nhuwi reached around and moved a box of leather shadow puppets across the seat and onto the scrapbook. The fluttering of clippings stopped. He turned back and raised his chin to Upendra, pensively.
    â€œI would make a good meal, wouldn’t I?”
    Upendra was puzzled. He gave Nhuwi a sidelong glance, searching the boy’s plain and smiling face for answers. None. The boy was a puzzle even to Upendra.
    â€œWe’re going to see the angel,” the boy added.
    Upendra’s grip on the wheel tightened.
    â€œSo it does exist, then?”
    The boy nodded.
    Their car raced over the Barcoo River and the desert gave way to deformed trees, and then to a township, where there was no road sign to tell them where they were or to welcome them to it.
    *   *   *
    John left off ministering to the hinges on his hotel’s windows to watch the Volkswagen Variant cross the bridge and drive into Isisford. It passed by, and he saw in it an Indian man and an Aboriginal boy. His gut told him trouble had arrived; and if it hadn’t, then it was coming.
    The car continued to cruise slowly along Saint Ann Street, and John saw the dark windows of the storefronts and the homes blemish with the blurred faces of the townsfolk.
    â€œYep,” he said to himself. “Trouble, trouble, trouble…”
    *   *   *
    They appeared first as just a few faces, silent strange things at their windows, watching him as he parked across from what declared itself the tourist center of the township. Upendra made a mental calculation as to how far from anywhere else they were, and was not assured when his mind placed them on a map in the middle of nowhere, in this place where streets were all named after the saints of Christendom, very far from anything else like civilization, and three days’ drive from a metropolitan city.
    â€œThis angel better be worth it,” he muttered to himself.
    â€œBetter wait out here, Nhuwi.” He winked at the boy, who gave him a thumbs-up in return.
    He donned his oversized jacket, with custom sleeves sewn inside for him to rest his extra set of arms, and stepped from the car.
    Crossing the heat-stricken street in his scuffed boots, an Akubra on his head, his eyes kept low, Upendra saw each and every face follow his progress until he’d reached that confusion of timber and sheet metal that was the tourist center, and he slipped through the door and out of view.
    *   *   *
    Inside, Upendra was met with one more pale face, eyes smudged darkly into pits that watched him impassively.
    He tipped his hat to the woman, gave a small smile, and gently made his way around the store, halfheartedly looking at the displays and the cheap merchandise. Rivers and crocodiles on mugs and fridge magnets. The dark pits watched him mercilessly.
    â€œIt’s a mighty hot day, that’s for sure,” he established.
    The woman didn’t say anything.
    â€œI like your wares,” he