Somewhere in the Land of Nye

“The vast sage desert undulates with almost imperceptible tides like the oceans,” wrote Native American author Frank Waters in 1999. Unfortunately, Nelson Franks had no mind for such quotes, had he even the slightest idea who Waters was.

It was a town that didn’t appear on his electronic device, but that didn’t matter to Nelson. He was on the road seeking an escape and an unlisted spot along side the highway was exactly what he was looking for as he dropped the kick-stand on his motorbike.

Though he looked more like a lawyer or perhaps an accountant, once his helmet was off, Nelson was in fact a wanted man. He’d been dodging the law and much of civilization for nearly two months by staying to the back roads and the backwater towns, including this one, someplace in Nye County, Nevada.

To shake the road dust from himself, he entered the diner down the corner from where he’d parked. He made eye-contact with the comely blond-haired, green-eyed waitress and his world fell to complete black.

When he woke up, Nelson was bouncing around the wooden floor of a fast-moving box. Though confused, he pulled himself up right only to realize he was inside an old-fashioned stage-coach, the kind he’s seen in TV westerns.

He crawled up into a seat and peered out the window. The horizon had a strange orange-red glow and the road the stage traveled over was a golden-brown sand.

He leaned out the window, where he saw the driver hunched over the reins and snapping a rawhide whip at the six bay horses beyond. Above him he noted the words painted above the door and windows: ‘Ferryman Stage.’

As Nelson did his best to make head-or-tails of the situation a Raven flew in through one of the coaches windows. It lit gently on the seat beside him, and though the stage was running rough-shod over the road, the bird seemed unfazed.

Feeling every bump, jolt and toss, Nelson struggled to maintain his balance as the bird spoke, “I don’t suppose you know what a psychopomp is, would you?”

Nelson didn’t answer. He simply sat and stared at the coal-black, talking bird.

“No matter,” he continued, “Where you’re heading you won’t need to know the meaning of such words.”

The carriage swayed hard to the left and then to the right as it struck a large rock with its steel-bound wheels. The metal on rock created a shower of sparks which rained onto the pair through the windows.

“I must remember to talk to Mr. Charon about his need for excessive speed and to remind him that he doesn’t need to hit everything he see’s with his stage,” the Raven stated, adding, “You do speak english, don’t you?”

Nelson violently shook his head as if trying to dislodge the vision of a talking bird from his mind, before he slowly nodded in the affirmative.

“So that you know,” the psychopomp continued, “There are many ways to cross the River Styx. You’re experiencing one of them now. The desert sand is like a sea, an ocean, a dry river bed and you, my dear friend, you’re on your way to Hell.”

Nelson scrambled from the floor and into the seat furthest from the bird. His eyes were wide as sweat rolled from his forehead down his cheeks.

He glanced out the stage window, hoping this was all a dream, but he knew it wasn’t. When he looked back towards the bird, it was gone — and in its place were two shiny gold coins, the exact toll needed for the Ferryman Stage.