Tarak's Dust of Desire

By Jason Warren

When thrusted back almost a century and a half, subsequent to being fragmented from his tribe, tracked down by tenacious bandits and then tragically meeting his demise – along with his parents’ – Tarak is in a dimension of bewilderment when he finds out that he has in fact been reincarnated and time-travelled to a contemporary Phoenix, Arizona, and now possesses more magic in his little blowpipe than he could have dreamt of.
However, he comes to the realisation that modern-day society is just as challenging as the mid-nineteenth century, and obstacles are put in front of the misplaced Apache almost imminently.
Jayden Adams can arguably be the bad influence on Tarak, as he befriends the time-leaping native. Nonetheless, Jayden suggests his new buddy to join his school. And so, Tarak proceeds on his conquest of new age education. But that’s when things take a chilled turn as Sunview’s vice principal is not to be trifled with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781398405776

Jason Warren

Jason Warren is a London-based theatre director, dramaturg and practitioner. His work as a director and dramaturg includes Nerve/Jekyll and Hyde (UK tour), The Sacred Obscene (London and Edinburgh), Two Girls (Southwark Playhouse), and fourteen new plays under the banner of his previous company, AXIS Arts, focused exclusively on new writing, innovative formats and emerging artists. Under AXIS Arts and its predecessor AXIS Theatre he produced the majority of his immersive work, including Caligula, Anima and #MSND. He also works regularly with marginalised voices, including work with disabled artists and in ex-conflict zones. Jason's work has been reviewed variously as 'muscular and intelligent' and 'disconcertingly nihilistic'. He enjoys sharing these qualities in his work as a regular director at East 15 Acting School. Creating Worlds is his first published book.

Book preview

Serve

About the Author

It’s fair to state: Jason is that of a distinction, in the universe of writing. His approach on rendering any reader that is fortunate enough to intake his sublime memoirs – a vivid projection, is a culmination of his passion to reach out to the entire globe. Growing up, immersed by comic books and all types of movies primitively, quite naturally, it was inevitable he would convey his own magical theme, constructed with great analogy. A raw but proficient writer. That will draw ‘any’ towards his work. A fundamental individual, that wheels a vibrant and quirky ambience within his plots. He knows his craft. And is finally here – to captivate the world!

Dedication

I dedicate this project to my beautiful grandmother, Lilly, who gave me a faint whisper in my ear to fulfil this concept. I love her and miss her every day. Also, to my grandad Arthur, for the genetic talent.

To my Nanna Warren and Grandad Page who always knew I would amount to something. Love you!

Becky from the education department in The Buckley, for ultimately giving me the inspiration. Thank you so much.

To my special cousin Kezia, who is more precious than anything in this world.

My Auntie Maria and Uncle Anton for also believing in me and giving me that extra drive. Love you!

Copyright Information ©

Jason Warren (2020)

The right of Jason Warren to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528905930 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528905947 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398405776 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Chapter One

A Lightning 142 Years

The sun’s pretty tone reached upon the Salt River Valley ‒ the morning seemed pleasant with the sky beaming its blue beauty. But the atmosphere in the air had tragic feedback from the past night. There lay three subjects of the Anglo-American hostility, an Apache family: mother, father and son sleighed down. Although… suddenly an unnatural energetic mist exited the young boy’s shell, rising to the sky at great speeds.

‘Whoa,’ gasped the boy as he lay on his back; dead gaze at the sky.

The fluffy white clouds were in his sights whilst the thick smog crept up onto his chest. Eventually standing on his feet he had breath-taking visions of his surroundings. The green grass, staunch trees and the ever so peculiar people situated in the vicinity; in his mind, peculiar people dressed very bizarre. At that particular moment all sorts of things were running through his mind –

Where am I, who are these people and where are my parents?

The last that Tarak could recollect was fleeing from the Anglo-Americans as they were on the hunt for him and his parents down the Salt River Valley. It seemed like yesterday to him. The flashbacks of that turbulent evening were somewhat vivid and brought an awful chill to his bones. The pursuit was horrific, as he and his parents were extremely desperate to avoid capture. The graphical detail of the high pitched scream of his mother ‒ then BANG; a thumping impact to his back, then to feeling drowsy through loss of blood, to eventually passing out. A complete blur, until that moment ‒ waking up, located in an area totally unfamiliar to him, whilst breathing normally with the blood circulating around his body ‒ without that stinging pain from the gunshot wound that once overwhelmed his back area.

‘Check this weirdo,’ arrogantly sniggered a young man to his associate as they cycled past Tarak.

Tarak didn’t absorb the mere fact of him being scrutinised ‒ he was just simply perplexed at what he was seeing. Deep in gaze at the pedal cycles ‒ wondering, What are those things?

‘What you goofing at, buddy?’ snapped the young man in an aggressive manor as he changed his direction back towards Tarak.

Tarak, sensing the hostility, quickly sprinted off towards some bushes on the other side of the pond. He felt unnerved and very scared, compelled to avoid these new breed of human beings. He was so confused ‒ he quickly got out of sight. He leaped into the bushes. As though he was taking a lifesaving jump ‒ getting to safety ‒ images of the barbaric Anglo-Americans kept thrusting back on to him. These particular images struck fear into him and upset him greatly. Tears began strolling down his cheek as he curled up in Mother Nature’s bushy barrier; ever so keen on finding a sense of tranquillity. He closed his eyes, battling with the salty drops in his eyelids, and then he began to search within, within for his parents. He was much aware that both his mother and father were spiritually present with him. And no matter what the circumstances, they would have never left him. After thirty seconds or so of tuning in, he was suddenly greeted by a familiar voice. A voice with such depth in the tone, it echoed throughout the universe.

‘Tarak, my son, you have searched within to seek guidance?’

‘Father?’ screeched Tarak in great relief.

‘Yes, it is I. Now pay strict attention, my boy. The events which took place ‒ resulting in separation of yourself, I and your mother ‒ were truly catastrophic. But this has been for great significance. For your path of responsibility,’ explained Big Loco.

‘Huh, how so, Father?’ bewilderedly replied Tarak.

‘Remember what I told you the night of our demise, that you shall always survive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, this is what I meant. Ysun has enabled your existence in a different period.’

‘Why, Father?’

‘You, as a young spirit, have had life cut short due to savage man, you are destined for greatness, my son, you are destined for magic,’ said Big Loco in a husky tone.

‘Magic?’ replied Tarak as his eyes bulged, ever so excited.

‘Yes, magic. You possess power of desire. Your spirit has travelled hundred and forty-two years on and formed shell in America’s modern day. Why twenty-first century? It is not known, but it has been for a specific reason.’

‘Hundred and forty-two years?’ replied Tarak in projective surprise.

‘Remember to search within any time, son. I and your mother are forever present to guide you. Also, the blowpipe you have had since you were a young boy is in your waistband. It is the instrument of your desires and your desires shall determine your future,’ explained Big Loco as his voice began to fade.

‘But, Father, I need…’

Big Loco’s voice had abruptly evaporated. Tarak received no reception whatsoever; his father’s voice had dwindled into the scorching air. All Tarak could register was the sound of birds tweeting as they congregated in the trees. He opened his eyes, almost struggling to, as the dried tear drops embedded into his lids. Then he began to grasp what his father had just told him ‒ and off he went to embark into the modern day. He cautiously stepped out of the bushes, taking a deep breath whilst doing so, consuming the much more polluted air as opposed to the nineteenth century. He built up that momentum to explore, but looking out for any of the hostile modern day civilians. Those people on the bicycles he had seen a few minutes prior were still very much on his mind ‒ in Tarak’s view modern day Anglo settlers patrolling around on funny looking horses; with extremely thin metallic like bodies, wheel type things for legs and very strange long, thin heads.

Seeing the coast was clear – Tarak began walking. His attention was wired towards the pond. He was, however, exceptionally thirsty; his erratic sprinting towards the pond made that evident. When he reached it, he crouched down and gulped as much water as he could. As each drop splashed down his throat, he couldn’t help but wonder how different it tasted, how tangy.

‘My god, what is that kid doing?’ said a woman to her companion as they jogged past.

‘That child’s parents want to be ashamed of themselves, allowing their son to drink that filthy water,’ replied the other woman.

Tarak, sensing the women’s presence, gulped a last bit of water and sprang to his feet. He was very much aware of the women gazing at him in disgust. He began to think that he was not to have drank from the pond; perhaps some fee was required and the women were guardians of the modern day oasis. He bolted off as fast as he possibly could.

‘What’s with those clothes?’ said one of the women.

‘He must be off one of the reservations,’ replied the other.

Tarak didn’t feel too compelled to stay in the park; he had strict intentions of getting out of there. Already he had been approached by a grumpy cyclist and snared at by a couple of mean mugging women. Even he knew it was time to hit the road, literally. He eventually found his way out, and when he approached the roadside he could not believe what he was seeing ‒ he was simply breath taken. He didn’t take any notice of every passer-by that was looking at him; even if they were snarling through their teeth. His eyes were totally locked onto the magnificent and captivating machines that were rushing by so fast. He was completely fixated ‒ all the different colours and textures of the cars, the sparkling wheels and powerful roar of the engines. Continuing his travels down the road, he still remained in a world of amazement, observing each vehicle that drove past, taking in all the dynamic movement and sound. They were literally the horse and wagons of the future. Becoming more mixed into the gathering of pedestrians on the street on that fine morning, Tarak also couldn’t help but notice the way these people were dressed ‒ oh and the way he was being looked at, by every one of them. The way they were glaring him up and down, but funnily enough, he was doing the exact same judgemental gazing. Obviously Tarak wasn’t up to date with the new age fashion. Whilst the average modern day teenage boy was sporting fancy sneakers, colourful jerseys and baseball caps, he was sporting his dusty beige pants with Apache stitching, a buckskin waist jacket, light brown boots and a burgundy head band.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

The car horn’s hooting shifted him back into reality.

‘Watch where you’re walking, kid!’ yelled an irate driver.

Tarak’s road awareness clearly needed improvement, as he very nearly got splattered by a pickup truck. At this point his belly was bouncing up and down, in and out, making all sorts of funny sounds.

‘I need food,’ he sighed.

His mind was set on feasting, so on he went on a quest for some form of food; although he was very much aware that in this new era he probably wouldn’t bumped into any buffalo any time soon – but hey what the heck – he reached the end of Van Buren Street and noticed some people sitting down dining at tables. He could smell the food alright. Curious, he approached a young couple to take a closer look at what they were eating. It was somewhat awkward for them, as they noticed this bizarrely dressed boy hovering over their table.

‘Can we help you?’ asked the man, quite cautious of Tarak.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ softly replied Tarak. ‘I was just curious about what you are eating.’

‘Ohhhh, I think he’s homeless,’ sympathetically said the woman.

‘So,’ callously snapped the man. ‘It’s pancakes, sausages and eggs, what does it look like?’

‘May I taste?’ politely asked Tarak.

‘What? Beat it, creep,’ barked the man as he pounced to his feet in a somewhat threatening manner.

‘Dirrrrrrrk,’ awkwardly mumbled the woman.

‘What?!’

‘Don’t be so mean.’

‘Mean? Some lowlife begging for food, it’s embarrassing,’ arrogantly chuckled the man.

By this point, Tarak had already dashed off – in fear of the aggressive man taking a pop at him. He headed back towards the park, still very hungry. He was beginning to think that the people in this day and age were just as uncivilised as back in the nineteenth century. Images of his parents came filtering into his mind; he missed them so much. More tears came funnelling down his face whilst he became lost in his own world of emotion. He began to reflect on all the cruel and hateful people that had mistreated him and his loved ones all throughout his life…

Chapter Two

The Hunt

The echoing sound of the bald eagle as it glided the skies, the great basin rattle snake roaming its domains as it blended into the sand dunes of the golden brown surface ‒ a tranquil vibe was within the Apache territory. The Natives were peacefully resting as they dreamt away, but over the hill, under the young sunrise, appeared to be a gathering of some twenty odd men on their horses.

With their shadows clashing with the red sky ‒ cast upon the vicinity.

‘Awake, Awake!’ barked Big Loco whilst he shook both his wife Ela and son Tarak. ‘I sense savage man on the horizon.’

Big Loco quickly exited the Tipi and cried out the danger signal. Suddenly, all the rest of the tribe awoke and got in gear to flee. Panic and desperation occupied their bodies as they noticed the intruding cavalry racing down the hill towards them. As they got closer, the Apaches were scrambling over each other to get out of harm’s way ‒ they could literally feel death’s presence latching on. The invaders were now just yards away. The gun smoke from their rifles became more fragrant in the atmosphere as they fired round after round. Big Loco wasted no time whatsoever fetching his horse. By this time bullets were greeting Apache flesh with intense impact. Bodies were quickly lunging to the ground.

‘Quickly!’ barked Big Loco as he pulled up beside Tarak and Ela.

They both rapidly hopped on and off the Mustang jockeyed. However, not all of the Apaches managed to get away. As Tarak and his parents fled the area, a whipping round of ammunition flicked past them.

‘Keep your heads low,’ informed Big Loco.

Tarak took a look back to see all the Tipis in burning flames, thick black smoke crowding the air, and his Apache people bloody and helpless on the ground.

Hours had passed, and Tarak and his parents were exceptionally thirsty. They had travelled miles south towards the Salt River Valley. They felt drained and dehydrated. The air was cultivated with the tremendous Arizona heat, sucking every bit of energy out of their bodies. Big Loco thought it was best to keep heading south, towards the Salt River Valley. Tarak couldn’t help but think about the graphical scenes of brutality he witnessed. His people being slaughtered like that, the horror as he looked back whilst in-between his father and mother on the getaway Mustang. They eventually reached the Salt River Valley. Big Loco found a fresh water dam nearby, and so they eased their uncontrollable thirst. Fluid was consumed, energy was gained, but safety was very much still out of reach. Big Loco knew he had to find a secure spot to rest; otherwise they would be still open to be captured. Half a mile down the river, Big Loco found a relatively safe spot to camp. It was shady and bushy ‒ just the place to avoid being seen.

Dusk was beginning to appear, so Big Loco went onto catch that evening’s meal. He went by the river and put his hunting skills to use. He caught three fairly large fish. Tarak helped find some wood and stones to start a fire. They indulged before going to sleep, as they were all really tired.

Awakened by the howling coyote of the night, Tarak jumped to his feet, making his way out of the bushy camp. His eyes fixed on the purple sky as the stars glittered and stood out with angelic presence. A peaceful vibe; only there seemed to be something wrong. As a shooting star breezed through the heavens, leaving behind a star trail streak, a very strange atmosphere lingered. Tarak then quickly noticed his parents were nowhere to be seen.

‘Mother… Father?’ he yelled, somewhat confused.

Suddenly, high pitch screams from the riverside reached him. He quickly rushed towards the direction, trying to reach there as fast as possible. But he was moving very slow. It was almost like he was delayed, moving in a trance like fashion. After tormenting strides to the river, he finally approached ‒ and what he saw was disturbing. It was his mother tied to a tree, being maliciously whipped by three men.

‘Mother!’ he cried with heated rage.

He jetted towards her, but as each sprinting stride he made and the closer he got, the more blurred his vision became; it was as if somebody had threw pepper in his eyes. Then suddenly, he could feel himself falling to the ground from a great height. He looked above to see the clear night sky, then looked down below to notice an everlasting drop, surrounded by a gloomy mist.

‘AGGGGGGGGGGH!’ he screamed.

‘Tarak, Tarak!’

‘Huh?’

‘Remain calm. You were just having bad dream,’ informed Big Loco as he comforted Tarak.

‘I thought I was falling,’ replied Tarak as he awoke in a cold sweat.

‘Not to worry, my son.’

‘Father! It was the most horrible dream I have ever had. I saw Mother being whipped by the savage man.’

‘I am here,’ said Ela, whilst reassuringly stroking Tarak’s forehead.

Ela was a mesmerising looking woman, with her big brown eyes that gave off warmth and beauty, her radiant mahogany skin that shined with natural oils and her ever so long black hair.

‘Loco, Tarak has witnessed very turbulent events these past couple of days, it is no wonder he is having bad dreams,’ said Ela.

‘Yes, this is true. His mind is vulnerable to evil images of savage man,’ replied Big Loco.

Tarak then wiped the tears from his face, jumped to his feet and proceeded to walk.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Big Loco.

‘To get water,’ replied Tarak.

‘I will come with you.’

Whilst walking with his son, Big Loco’s anger and resentment mounted up incredibly. And it was no surprise, having to live life in such a way. Constantly being hunted down and currently separated from his family and tribe members. It very much seemed every day was spent in doubt whilst the Anglo-Americans were infecting the lands with terror.

‘Tarak.’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘I need you to pay close attention to what I’m going to tell you.’

‘I will.’

‘Now, no matter what happens in the near future, you shall survive.’

‘What do you mean, Father?’ asked Tarak, whilst scrunching his face.

‘You don’t have to know what I mean, you just have to be aware,’ explained Big Loco.

‘I’m scared, Father,’ grumbled Tarak. ‘What if we are captured by the settlers?’

‘Not to worry. I will do everything in power to keep you and your mother safe.’

And after they fetched water, they headed back to camp and lay to rest for the night.

A few hours from dawn, the moon still sparkled with its cotton wool like texture.

Tarak and his parents were tucked up together, sleeping in a peaceful dimension; a dimension they would rather remain in, as the dimension of life was of a cruel nature.

‘Quickly, they are here!’ screeched Big Loco as he awoke both Tarak and Ela.

They both leaped to their feet, also sensing the very same hostile atmosphere in the air.

‘Stay very close, night’s shadows are our allies,’ whispered Big Loco as he led the way out of the bush.

They peeped out to hear the high yell of the hunters.

‘We need to get to the horse quickly. GO!’ instructed Big Loco.

‘Hey ya’ll, they’re over here!’ bellowed one of the invading mob.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

Resounding gunfire erupted in the area.

Chapter Three

The Dust of Desire

‘It’s just the same. They all hate me, people so full of hatred ‒ all I desire is peace,’ cried Tarak in a frustrated tone.

Then it suddenly dawned upon him; he remembered what his father had told him some twenty odd minutes prior.

‘Desire!’ he screeched whilst reaching for his waistband. ‘My blowpipe.’

He was now beginning to fill with hope and excitement. He sprinted on in hopes to find a secluded spot in the park, with the strict intentions of experimenting with his new instrument of desire. Patrolling the park for a quite location, he noticed a particular area that looked like a rainforest; it looked that vibrant. This was the gardens. He entered and instantly embraced all the beauty it had to offer. All the colourful flowers, the pretty butterflies, eloquently floating and the refreshing essence of the natural wonders of the world. It was indeed tranquil. There was no sign of human atmosphere, only the atmosphere of Mother Nature. Getting deeper into the gardens, Tarak adored the place more and more. He then noticed a perfect spot. He quickly brought the blowpipe to his mouth; the moment of truth.

‘Here goes,’ he sighed.

FWOOOOOOOOOOOO

As he closed his eyes and blew through the pipe, glittering orange dust engulfed the air. Tarak had a particular image in his head: food. And for the mere fact of him having food on his mind for the past forty-five minutes, it was no surprise. Roasted buffalo with such a succulent texture, which would have melted in mouths with such ease, wild rice cooked to perfection ‒ just as his mother would prepare ‒ yummy sweet potatoes, grilled peppers, avocados and golden Indian corn (Maize). He opened his