Outsider's Journey story portion

The endless walking became hellish, but the freedom made it a good kind of hell. He had not done much walking in a very long time. In his youth, he walked among the pine forests, and the hills and streams of his home village, and took his risks on the sand bluffs. Those were more pleasant days.
Thirst was starting to set in, but it seemed there was hope, as signs of civilization began to emerge. The ground felt different, he had passed two dirt roads (that seemed to disappear in either direction), and dry shrubs now pocketed the landscape.
Later, when the sun set the clouds become pink in the sunset. Day blue had become evening indigo, almost an almost purple night. He attempted to sleep in the dirt, like an animal, and without shame, but rest came only in fits and starts. The night was surprisingly cold at night, and he shivered, listening to the sad songs of lonely predators in the distance.
The night was surprisingly chilly, so he woke after perhaps two hours, and continued walking.
He dreamed, and as he did, he had visions of the wars of his people. There were wars against aliens, against themselves, against cousins. Several times, they fought on the side of fascist, terrible rule, before being pulled from the brink of madness. Guilt followed, and contrition. Planets were destroyed, peoples enslaved, and several races wiped from existence. It was a maelstrom of gore, followed by yet more depressing, heavy guilt.
These were things he could not make himself express in the mountain cell, in the first decades, when the naïve people of this planet were curious to hear about his past. How to tell them of the nearly certain, world shattering events just over the horizon, but did not want to sound unhinged, and in any case, embarrassed silence was easier than the light of his own flaws.
Still, after many years a path of wisdom was found by his people, and equilibrium was reached, and much happier times followed. They had become a peaceful people, and given permission and abilities beyond their previous imagining, while former violent antagonism became mostly free and open debate. Or so they taught him when he was a child.
With a startle, he came to his senses, the nightmare vanishing as quickly as it came. It was still night, and after a moment viewing the Milky Way, he got up to banish the stifness in his limbs. He might as well walk.
~
The desert, he found, gave a man time to think, but exhaustion, the unreal panorama stars overhead, and distant sounds of the made for a disjointed experience. Accustomed to a cramped cell, the new experience of endless space was just as lonely, but made him feel less like a fossil covered in dirt, and more like a boat adrift at sea.
He considered simply calling up and asking for an evacuation/
After a time, there was aglow, and he turned to witness the spectacular rise of the sun. Once up, he continued to travel west, following his singular shadow. On the horizon, a town slowly emerges from the desert, first as a haze, then a dim glow, suddenly revealing box-like buildings isolated along a highway.
Sustenance

[What this chapter is about…pure mundane. Basically, shows how human Adamu is, except seen with an extra layer of unfamiliarity..]

As the small squared off building became larger to the eye, the outsider to this place cataloged them, as though specimens in some foreign land. The buildings had, for the most part, plastic siding or painted wood, glass windows, all squares, and mostly covered from the inside by cloth drapery-which he found illogical and defeating the purpose—and the houses had broken rock pebbles stuck in panels on slanting roofs, numerous varieties of the metal automobiles he knew to be popular with the locals, and several had metal or wooden fences. It gave the impression of numerous layers of rectangular containment, which he knew to be a reflection of the planetary arrangement, particularly second largest gas giant, but the visual affect was striking, hinting at a fear or paranoia in the populace that was both deep seated, and probably unconscious.
The grass was probably the strangest thing encountered so far. It was carefully tended, strictly applied, grown then cut. Much of it was brown at tips—presumably from the dryness of the climate, from which it could further be deduced was not the native region—and it was ubiquitous. Absolutely nowhere was a fruit tree, or nut or date, and so far not a single garden which could produce an edible food, which was in stark and empty contrast to the disorganized and spread out villages he was used to, which used every available space for greenery, food production, or beauty.
Each building paraded past, he passed a gas station, several houses, in strict, regimented rows, before himself without a patch, came across an eatery on which appeared to be the “main” street.
A person looking across the dry land would have seen little beyond the ordinary, beyond the direction from which he walked, though there was no one else so adventurous as to be out at this hour. The eyes were just slightly larger than normal, and maybe the earlobes were a bit low, but they were now covered by the ragged, wavy and unshorn hair. Add the jumpsuit that would look reasonable on a workman, and cheap sneakers, the Outsider looked surprisingly normal. Reasonable clothing was one of the few concessions they managed. His ethnicity could be placed by most in northern Europe.
He wandered in, looking around at dirty and sometimes ramshackle buildings. After coming to an eatery, it took only the growling of his stomach to entice him inside. He knew the people would like demand money, and he didn’t have any, but he was hungry. He walked in, and stood in the middle of the empty area. It was bright, and the people stared. It was strange, and alienating. The person behind the counter called out. “Can I help you?”
Several people look away as though afraid. Some looked sickly, and one looked downright miss-formed. (He couldn’t know that, in many places, people looked like this all the time. Times were tough, and these were a beat down people)
He looked to the right, still hesitant. He was operating on instinct and desperation, not even sure what he should be looking for. One man looked strong, but also dirty, and gave off a feeling of privacy.
The whole place produced a feeling of not quite belonging, which was almost too much. He thought about leaving, but then a kind old soul spoke up, and offered to buy him a meal. “Site over here,” was all that was said. Physically aged, a bit dirty, and worn, the stranger had nevertheless sharp eyes and a soft humor. The old man appeared to be a bit worn and poor himself, but he gladly paid for it, for some reason. There was a look Adamu had never seen before, and was flummoxed how to read. “What’s your name,’ the old man asked. “Adamu”, he replied. “Well Adam,“ the old man said, mishearing, reaching a hand out, ‘I’m Sam. It’s a pleasure.” Adamu hesitated, then reached across and shook his hand, grabbing more fingers at first, then sort of bumping his way into the locked-together position, as he’d seen it done in video archives.
With a bemused expression, the old man asked, “I wonder if you want to tell me where you are going.” The outsider thought about it for a time. “I’m not sure, to be honest.” The old man ate, on his own time. He asked, “Are you looking for something?” “Yes, but, I’m not sure what yet.”
“Well, pardon me, but you seem like a man on the run, and that outfit is…ridiculous. No offense. You wouldn’t happen to be running away from someone?” the old man asked.
The apparently younger man stood his ground, surrounded by strangers, not wanted to ceded the point, on target though it was. He said, “I suppose it’s true. But that’s water under the bridge, as I believe you say.”
He stayed, and joined him, and though he started his meal after the old man, then finished first, feeling like a greedy vulture. Adamu looked around then, suddenly aware of the noise and bustle of these townsfolk. In a rush, he felt they were a joy to watch. The meal was eggs and hash browns, simple, but filling, and very welcome. Brightly light, dirty but in a humble way, minds at ease and demeanors neighborly. Clumsy fingers clanked utensils and scrapped plates, and sometimes teeth. That bothered him a little, but if they didn’t mind, neither would he.
They talked about a few things, but after some small talk, there was that pause in an awkward conversation. The old man wanted to ask something, but both knew he wouldn’t. Instead he said, “Ok, tell me about yourself.” Adamu wants to honor the question, but the whole truth would be a disaster, and in any case would not be understood. Better to make an honest effort. “
“I grew up basically in the woods, up north. Worked in shops, cutting steel, wood, you name it. My life’s been…do you want to hear all this?” Adamu said he did, and added, “You told me you worked on material things, cutting metal and wood. That’s something you did, not who you are. Tell me about you. Did you like it? Not?”
The old man continued,“ I should say, I had problems with drink. I’ve had to recognize that. So don’t be put off that I put it out there, but I need to keep reminding myself. Had some kids, did some good things, some bad things.”
“You almost sound like you are bragging,” Adamu.
This took Sam back a bit. “I suppose I liked it, as much as a many would like manual labor. Same thing, day in and day out. Not exciting, big city stuff, but honest work. “
Adamu says, “There’s nothing wrong with that, because an honest man is a good man, and honest work is perhaps 90% of life.”
Sam starts to respond, catches himself, thinks for a bit, scratches his chin, holds back on another comment, then just nods.
“I suppose you are right”, Sam jokes, a bit embarrassed, Sam says to the seemingly younger man, “well, when you’re my age, you’ve already gone through quite a bit. I’ve had my good times, and my bad times. Had a good woman once, before my wife. Left me. He looks over. “My fault.”
“As you say,” says the young looking man.
“So,“ Sam says, “I feel like I know some things. Not everything, but a little bit. “
They sit in silence for a while. Adamu can almost see some of the memories bubbling up in the old man’s consciousness, the way you can see someone’s face change when speaking of different topics. He was content though, to let the old man decide what to speak on, and in his own time.
Driving back, in a busted up, rusty ford, they talked of the nature of humanity. “I have worries,” Sam says. “It seems like things are going to hell in a handbasket.” Adamu asks why he says this. Sam asks, “What about you? You look like you’ve traveled a bit. Where have you been?” He looks over, and something about the blank, but intelligent look he sees, makes him explain.
The younger man decides to take a risk. “Let me tell you a story. You don’t have to believe it, and…perhaps think of it as an allegory.” He thinks for a short while more. “…I spent a considerable time trapped in an underground cage. I did not see the sun until yesterday, for a very long time. I had no freedom, and my captures were at times brutal…but looking around, and taking in the people, even I don’t feel this world is that bad off.” Sam looks over, then back at the road with a crease on his brow.
“Well, son, that is a strange story. I can tell you, I’ve seen some terrible places. I’ve seen places where the people have, quite literally, given up hope. I’ve seen disasters, I’ve seen people die. I’ve seen children die…” He looks off into the desert, which, despite the dryness, still has birds, and flowers, and shrubs, however dry. “I think, I’m not sure where this world is going.”
Adamu thought he’d take the initiative. “Where does that thinking come from”? (I’ve seen it) Give me an example. (Sam says, “Haven’t you ever seen those news stories of Vietnam. The helicopters and all that?
“No, “ Adamu says.
Sam looks at him. “Right, well, so the idea is that, after the war, the one in the jungle I mean, they tested out chemicals, right on the people. And they told the people how safe it was. But of course, well, you know, they lied, and it’s not.“
Adamu asks, “What was it?”. Sam blurts out, “Hell! I don’t know. Some damn fool thing. The point was, it made the kids sick, later. They got real sick.” Adamu said, “Well, I can tell you this. There are people in power, and there are people who just go to work. I know there are rich and poor, and people who think they are poor. There is a lot of division right now. Countries, labels, races.”
…They talked further on the rifts between people, which seem to be getting worse every day, but of course have always been there. Sam concedes some things are possibility, but talks about how people are afraid.
“You know,” Adamu said, “the divisions might be needed. One thing I know, is that there are many types of people on this world. Man, woman, different generations, and many different mentalities, and ways of looking at things. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s possible it’s necessary. Is it so foolish to think it’s part of a healing process?”
“Ok, fine”, Sam says, “but you can’t say that all this fighting is good. You see fighting on television, the politicians can’t get anything straight, there’s war, and people hate each other. It’s terrible.”
Adamu says, “yes, but the hate and anger is just another energy. It’s like how a flame can burn, and destroy, or it can warm you up. I remember being told by a teacher once that many people in this world are motivation and energized by the conflict. It’s what motivates them, gets them up in the morning.
The old man scowls “…How do you mean?” O look out at the scraggly road.
“I don’t know how to say it better than that,” Adamu says, “I think someone wise once said, ‘Things will get worse just before they get better’.”
Sam said, “Sounds like a load of new age crap!” He laughed a little bit. The old man thought a long time on that. “You know what, you make me want to believe you. This happy thinking doesn’t make any sense, but you almost make me want to believe.”