Indian Summer

Don’t visit Las Vegas in summer.

The wind, when Anthony stepped out of the airport, was like one of those giant gas blower heaters they use to heat cavernous halls. The wind blew in from the desert. And Las Vegas is tiny. Beyond the absurd town, one could see reality: desert – austere, harsh, sere.

At least the wind was real. The first thing that Anthony had seen on stepping off the air bridge had been rows of gaudy, flashing gaming machines – the airport! – and opposite on the wall, a giant advertisement – ‘The Gun Store 2900 East Tropicana Ave (minutes from the strip) Open 7 days TRY ONE! SHOOT A REAL MACHINEGUN! MP5, Uzi, Thompson, MP40, AK47, Sten, M16, M249 SAW’.

God bless America.

Don’t visit Las Vegas at all.

Anthony had read Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz’s An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States. How much easier the genocide would have been with a few M249 Squad Automatic Weapons! The Indian Removal Policy probably wouldn’t have needed to resort to mandating the slaughter of every buffalo on the continent in order to wipe out the Indians’ economic base for resistance – could have just mowed down them ‘hostiles’ in one fine Indian summer.

In the cheap hotel that night, Anthony riffled through the Gideons Bible (God bless America).
      The sayings of Agur son of Jakeh, of Massa. Oracle of this man for Ithiel, for Ithiel and for Ucal …
So far so uninteresting.
      … There are three things beyond my comprehension,
      four, indeed, that I do not understand:
     the way of an eagle through the skies,
     the way of a snake over the rock,
     the way of a ship in mid-ocean,
     the way of a man with a girl …

The way of a man with a girl didn’t seem all that incomprehensible from Anthony’s recollection – and certainly the rhythmic bang of furniture on the wall of his room suggested that the people in the next room weren’t too perplexed.

Anthony had seen fish eagles in Zimbabwe and, high up lost in the blue of African skies, the famous bateleur eagle. Yeah, pretty cool.

Boats held no interest for Anthony. But Anthony was a New Zealander …

He escaped Las Vegas and headed for Utah: Edward Abbey country, the father of eco-terrorism.

He was struggling up the steep canyon slope – hard, red, solid rock – the scant vegetation desiccated and stunted, when he saw movement on the track ahead.

He ran towards it. The snake was an intense blue, it moved like electricity across the red rock, it moved fast and with all the power of the vast natural world, like the very serpent once revered with awe as vicar of divinity, rebirth and spiritual power here beneath the burning Sun.

Anthony ran after it, enchanted.


Barnaby McBryde