Read Online The Lost Train of Thought by John Hulme - Free Book Online Page B

Blaque approached an old man too wrinkled and hunched over to even hold up a sign, Becker could tell he was looking for something that wasn’t on display.
    “What is your pleasure, oh mighty Fixers of the World?”
    The old man’s skin was the color of brown that can only be painted by a lifetime under the unforgiving sun, and his eyes were the milky white of blindness. Yet the unmistakable gleam of a born salesman was still behind them, a gleam that brightened considerably when Fixer Blaque began to speak to him in a language Becker had never heard before. It was harsh and guttural, one that the old-timer clearly understood, for it was only a matter of seconds before he flashed a toothless grin and called out in the tongue common to all Seemsians.
    “Grandsons!”
    Two teenagers sending text messages on their Seems Berrys snapped to their feet, and with a whisper from their grandfather, disappeared behind an ornate tapestry. When they reemerged, the boys were juggling four brass helmets that looked like they belonged on an old-fashioned deep-sea diving suit. One by one, Becker plopped them into his Toolkit—which, although it had plenty of extra Space, didn’t have unlimited weight. It was starting to get awfully heavy.
    “What kind of helmets are these, sir?”
    Fixer Blaque checked his Time Piece™, which indicated their train would be departing for Obscurity in less than three minutes.
    “Let’s hope you never find out.”
    “Next station stop: the Sticks! All aboard for the Sticks, Seemsberia, and the End of the Line!”
    As the wellness colony of Obscurity slowly receded into the distance, Becker and Fixer Blaque retired to their sleeper cabins to sort through the gear they’d scored in the market. Meanwhile, Hassan and the Octogenarian were finishing up light lunches and watching the landscape shift from rolling green hills to marshlands and thicket. The crowd in the dining car had noticeably thinned since they’d left the Outskirts—most of the remaining passengers congregated on the stools around the lunch counter— leaving the two Fixers a booth to themselves.
    “Why do you think Blaque selected you for this Mission?” Hassan asked his counterpart, mouth half full. “I understand why he took the boy genius— but with all due respect, you’re not exactly in your prime.”
    The Octogenarian had already finished her grilled cheese and was happily knitting an afghan from balls of multicolored yarn. “Actually, I was wondering the same thing about you.”
    “How so?”
    “Honey, the only way we’re going to survive the Middle of Nowhere is if every member of the team knows they can count on one another.” Fixer #3 switched colors from larkspur to huckleberry. “Considering no one on the Roster trusts you as far as they can spit into the wind, I find you to be an even more unlikely selection.”
    “Touché.”
    Hassan didn’t need to be stabbed by a knitting needle to know this was a dig at his life’s work. The Fixer had been born to a proud and storied people whose beliefs and customs were contained within an ancient book. But over two thousand years ago, the thirteenth and most critical chapter had mysteriously vanished, leaving the text tragically incomplete. In the centuries that followed, a tribe that once stretched across the face of The World dwindled to a few thousand . . . and could soon become but a footnote in the annals of History.
    “It’s been years since I turned down a Mission to pursue the chapter, Sylvia.”
    “All I’m saying is, some of us wonder what comes first: your worldly Mission or your Mission to save The World?”
    The only answer was the steady and hypnotic click-clack of wheels against rails.
    “And as far as my age is concerned, let me just say this.” The Octogenarian held up the afghan, frowned, then got back to work. “Every year on the third Wednesday of October, I take a trip to Canaima National Park in Venezuela, climb to the top of Angel Falls, and