An Adventure Story

The barren is beautiful in its uncluttered space

Nothing

As far as the eye can see

No one

Just harsh and inhospitable topography

Nada más

The cold bites though. The icy wind laps eagerly against bare flesh. And that thing that’s inside of us demands warmth and company.
The first sign of civilisation leaps in to the landscape, a lonely human construction in the midst of nature’s might. It is, at first glance, a wooden shack but in reality it is much more. It is food and warmth and drink and company. It is a haven of humanity – a traveller’s tavern. Its sign creaks grimly in the wind. It reads ‘El Fin del Mundo.’
The man makes for it on his battered old Rocinante. He is battered too. Wrinkles line his face and his lavishly scruffy beard is adorned with streaks of grey. He dismounts outside the door, knocks and enters. Warmth confronts then comforts him and an old man wiping tables looks up in his direction
‘Bienvenidos,’ the old man says, dropping his cloth and walking over to the traveller. ‘Food? Drink? Rest?’
‘All three please jefe,’ the traveller croaks. His voice is out of practice but begins to recover its gravelly gruffness by his second sentence. ‘Food first please. And some wine.’ With this, he takes off his hat, places it on the bar and pulls up a stool.

A glass tumbler and a carafe of wine are placed in front of him and he pours himself a liberal measure, sips it, savours it and then pours the rest down the hatch. He refills his glass and looks round for the landlord who is speaking to a bodiless female voice on the other side of the door to his left.
He forces his eyes to widen and strains his ears to hear their words. The attempt is futile and so he swings his gaze around the empty room and takes in a handful of wooden tables and chairs and a small fire that is a feeble match for the howling winds all the way down here at the ends of the earth.
The old man returned. ‘Sanchita is preparing something for you now. Do you need anything else?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Tierra del fuego.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
The old man doesn’t mind silence and he asks no more but begins to wipe down tables with his grimy cloth. The traveller focuses on the undulating wine he swirls around and around in his tumbler. Why has he sent me here? What am I looking for? Why did he die?

Memory invades his mind and he is back at the cusp of manhood watching the white cliffs of Dover recede in to the horizon until finally all around is sea and he is alone in the crow’s nest. Below him on deck they scuttle about their business and it is just him and the sea and the waves and the breeze.

He tries to recapture that feeling, to summon the emotions he felt that day but all he can feel is a vague, recurring constriction in his chest and he is saddened that the past is gone and lost and utterly irretrievable.
The door to his left opens and a pretty young woman enters carrying a plate of poor man’s beef, which she lays down before him. As he turns to thank her, she catches his eye and there is a conspiratorial look amongst the emerald of her iris but she says only ‘De nada’, meekly inclines her head and exits stage left.
Normally he would think about this look - analyse it and assess it. But he is a hungry man and there is a steaming plate of rice and potatoes and beef in front of him and he sets about devouring it. Once or twice, he swigs from his tumbler but doesn’t take his eyes off his food until the plate is clean, whereupon he pushes his chair back from the bar, stretches and fishes in his jacket pocket for tobacco.
He rolls himself a cigarette, lights it with a match and puts the match in the ashtray. As he idly scratches his belly and smokes, he is warm, full and content and he does not even remember the memory of the white cliffs of Dover.
As he smokes, the young woman re-enters to clear his plate. This time there is no conspiratorial glance, she simply asks how the food was and he tells her it was delicious and he looks at her properly for the first time.
She cannot be more than twenty three or twenty four and he wonders what a young woman of that age is doing here at the ends of the earth. The old man, who has now moved on to wiping dusty picture frames with the same cloth, must be her father. Or perhaps even her grandfather. They have the same nose. She exits now again.

The old man turns to the traveller.
‘Would you like to see you room?’
‘Yes please jefe.’
He follows him through the door on the left and catches a glimpse of Sanchita as he passes the kitchen, down a corridor and then another and in to a small room. It is bare but looks comfortable – there is a small bed, a table with a candle on it and a wooden chair. The bare necessities.
‘How much is it?’
’20 pesos.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Just for one night?’
‘Perhaps more. I am very tired and I am in no hurry.’
‘Just let me know. Tomorrow I have to go to town, so I will be gone all day. Is there anything you need?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Very well. We normally eat dinner at about 6 but I will come for you when it is ready.’
With this, the old man leaves the room, closes the door and the traveller flops down on the bed. From his jacket pocket he pulls out a battered old journal and begins to read