Stealing from a man that never ever slept was not going to be easy. Mother had at last left for the Ohio Country, and ever-watching Hoost was gone, as was Jan and Randy. They had no warriors left at base except for the curious red-haired man called Miles Standish who Healer had brought back from Mother Earth recently after being called there by Hope’s disciples. The man guarded the base of the elevator with a sword. Above the elevator was Kevin of the Rent-a-cop Society of part time warriors. Kevin had a nice uniform and steel light-club called flashlight with four weights called D-cells for giving beatings that Kevin called ‘wood-shampoos’. Kevin was an odd warrior, and could surely be tricked.
Three-Rivers’ biggest problem was that he had inspired Burnt Man, who now dragged him through the endless chores of science: fuss; tinker; count; contemplate; cross-reference; factor; pace; erase; spin on heels; flip up the finger of revelation; make the frown of reconsideration; factor; fuss; tinker—help me!
Someone had to take charge. Three-Rivers now understood the bossy nature of a science prophet’s servants. “Holy Robinson, we have not gone outside for a day or more. Furthermore, my tuxedo needs changed—the steel-gray one I think—and your speedskull* shirt is wrinkled. Let us go to the bar and have Mister Epson make for us a shaken drink. I will place the dream-catcher and the fine white book into your case called brief and carry it around for you so that we can seek the book for inspiration and ‘field-test’ and ‘dry-run’ the capacitator. These exercises were very helpful for our last journey.”
The scientist was tired and not thinking clearly. “We should lock up the capacitator.”
“Holy Robinson, Hoost and Mother are gone and Chief Medicine-Shuei is no doubt in communion, he meditates this time of day often—liar, liar! Besides, I was thinking that you should be the one, with me as your language-speaker and Jay as our warrior—good that was he loves his Jay-man —to go back for God’s Picture Maker.”
The weary scientist nodded absently, packed the book and the capacitator in his small black case and handed it to Three-Rivers. “Yes, let us have a nice iced ginger ale—maybe even a coke! Then we can go out to the bench in the garden and speak of many things…”
Three-Rivers held the door for the man and they were off to the room they shared, to change their clothes next to the stacked sleeping platforms called bunks that Lady Tannika kept so neat.
*Three-Rivers had once made the mistake of asking Randy Bracken why Doctor Robinson’s shirts were called “polo” and had to stand for a description of the origin of the game of riding horses and striking a ball with a long stick. After learning that enemy heads were originally used and only later replaced with balls, Three-Rivers had decided that a proper translation of polo into English would be speedskull.
The Plight of Thieves
The sun was warm, so sitting on the stone bench in the garden was pleasant enough on this afternoon of falling leaves that shimmered in the sunlight. Mister Epson had not been at the bar. This had left Three-Rivers, in his finely creased steel-gray tuxedo, gator-hide cowboy boots, and light blue hip-hop gangster hat cocked bill-back to the side, to mix the drinks. He spiked his own ginger ale with Randy Bracken’s favorite oak juice called JD and put much of the tasteless spirit known as vodka into Burnt Man’s tall iced coke, shaken of course—a bubbling mess that was!
They were not halfway through their drinks when Burnt Man, called Doctor Robinson, so burdened of conscience and weary of factoring, fell fast asleep. This of course was helped along by Three-Rivers singing the Goodnight Song of the Mother People, who were ardent winter sleepers.
Now wrong-eyed Sunset boy, this great man sits helpless at your side and you hold his greatest treasure and most dreaded hopes in your hands. Shall you now betray him like the disciples of Heysuse Christos? Taking little things here and there is one thing. But being this kind of thief brings a burden. Yes, an apology with a promise…
Three-Rivers sat next to the faintly breathing man and produced his Tuxedoed Trickster pen, which could be used for writing on the disembodied blank pages called napkins that went so well with shaken drinks. He used this pen to make an apology on the case of the book:
Dear Holy Robinson, greatest of Burnt Men, Prophet of The Beginner’s Plan. I, Three-Rivers, formerly lots of things, but now just a Sunset boy, have stolen your Thunder-hoop, and borrowed the book of God’s Picture Maker called Leonardo. I promise to seek him out and bring him to you, but not before he is able to leave the good behind for his grandchildren that you spoke of. Holy Robinson, I love you and Mother, and make apology to you both. But I must seek the medicine that has flown from me.
To the People of Mother Earth I once promised to return and I must. A thunder-thief I may be, but a breaker of sacred promises I am not. I know you must be angry Mother and may want to hunt me. But please, consider that Thrush needs to be reminded to floss his teeth, and that Lady Doe-Eye surely needs her hair combed, that the polish on Sharita’s nails is beginning to lose its luster, and that one of these many Sunset men sneaking glances at your long legs needs to be reminded of his inadequacy, and that there are so many others that need bossing Mother—remember I do love you!
Sneakily yet Sincerely Yours,
Three-Rivers WhiteSkyCanoe-Hesperia, AKA Thunder-Boy!
He sat and red this apology, approved it, counter-signed it, and laid it on his spot on the bench as he rose and sneaked off with the briefcase. He had only the case, his cell, and his wallet with six 20s, a 5 and his one lucky CherryTreeKiller Ancestor trade note, the first one he had gotten on coming to Sunset. Mother had long since appropriated his card of getting money. He would just have to make do. He did have the cards of some people he had met on the Bus of Big Medicine in the Town of Burnt Men on first coming to Sunset, and these might be helpful friends in times of need.
You have friends in the Town of Burnt Men, and there is Eddie. Eddie has a thunderhorse and Mother has rejected him. He is your man.
Three-Rivers had made his way to the back of the building behind the mobile painted-moonstone-refuse-trench called dumpster. He peeked about like a man with three numbers for a name and opened his cell to call medicine-man Eddie, a bold trash-talker of the Hip-Hop Society who could surely guide him to the Town of Burnt Men.
