The chalk dust from the ancient sea bed blew thin, vaporous across the miners shack. It found a way past the shingles, the tin siding, past the broken window pane and into the cupboards, the mouth and teeth of one Artemus G. Morton. To Mr. Morton,
a combination of whiskey and sand grit represented itself as a sort of mouthwash... dental hygiene if you like.
Artemus, a drifter miner from Earth and recluse extraordinaire, first came to my store the year before the great Earth war and had staked a claim to a small patch of iron rich hillside south of Forty Mile Town. As was his convention, exactly every three months, Artemus came to my store to pick up supplies; sundries mostly, such as hard tack, salt, mining supplies and....of course, his Martian whiskey.
I was fond of Artemus. But in this matter, I resided in the minority. To say that Artemus didn't have much want for social conventions such as bathing and the like would have constituted a mild understatement. His thick red beard was home and favored host for a great many sand fleas and beetles found around these parts. Upon sight of such collections, most citizens found a comfortable distance more to their liking.
As one could discover, conversations with Artemus would usually come in the form of mutterings with words that whistled phonetically past gaps in his teeth. His thick miner's body creaked more like dry saddle leather
and his errant left eye was a might disconcerting. Lord knows I espouse such virtues as bathing and good trimming would provide. But he had been mining, south of Forty Mile such that change did not appear in the offering.
Nonetheless, I liked the man.
I last saw Artemus as he happened into town for his spring resupply. I remember because he came in early a few days. His "mature" truck (as he liked to call the old beater) rattled, wheezed coming to a stop in the red dust of the street. As he walked through the door, he struck off the miner's dust from his hat. His right eye twinkled and he appeared unusually animated. His dry leather body creaked quickly across the wooden floor to the counter.
"Seen 'em, I did."
Silence.
"Seen who Artie?" I replied, distracted by my cash register chores.
"Them Martians."
I chuckled.
"Yeah, right."
"Nah, Gif, I seen 'em. Talked to 'em as well."
In the excitement of the moment, air whistled past his teeth.
More excitement and more whistling.
"Gif, now we been friends for near twenty- three years, right?"
"Right."
"Now I'm telling you, I saw them Martians 'an I talked to one."
I set the coins back into the drawer.
This was a new topic of conversation for he and I.
I closed the drawer.
I looked at the man, his eye sparkling.
I also considered the twenty-two plus years the man had spent in those red iron hills, eking
out his paltry grub stake. No company, just the thin Martian air and a dog named Mange. I wondered...was the loneliness beginning to close up around the old man?
"Artie, they've been dead and gone for over a thousands years. Hell, you been to their cities...you know that."
He stammered, angry now, staring at his boots, shuffling back and forth. His fists closed, gnarled tight, like clubs.
He stared up at me, his good eye burning bright with anger.
"Tall, Gif, taller than you, and thin, thin as the air, with eyes made of copper. You thinks I'm crazy from the wind 'an maybe I am a little, but I saw 'em and spoke to one."
His fist slammed the counter, his eye ablaze and he turned suddenly on his heels, out the door and into the orange sky. The old truck sputtered, shook, came to life, with smoke, fumes and fury. He drove the truck south until it became part of the orange dust. I returned to counting the days tally.
I felt bad for rousing the old fart. But Lord know, he was inflamed already, what with a head full of idiotic notions. Martians and him meeting, talking to them... Christ.
I played with the idea of calling Doc Millard. But after rolling the idea around in my head, I dropped it. Nothing was going to undo all those lonely years. How do you help a man that's been held to that kind of friendless hell? Men need the company of others, a charitable woman perhaps, to counter that terrible stillness that's Mars. Men need towns, church socials, saloon laughter. Artie was a victim to that aching quiet that lays down in your bones...a quiet that drives your thoughts to wander in a bad, bad way.
Mars can make you go mad.
Conversations with two thousand year old dead Martians... Christ, poor Artie.
Oh, I know what you're thinking... the machines are still working. Martian machineries making thin air thick, cities that carry on, repairing themselves, functioning with Swiss watch perfection. Canals with transparent waters, streets cleaned everyday.
But what of the builders, the engineers, the poets, authors... the Martians themselves?
Dead.. .all of them.
Long dead and we all knew it.
Ghosts.
I finished the count and closed the drawer. Closed it on more than just the count.
I wondered when I'd see that crazy miner again.
I liked Artemus G. Morton.
I really did.
