ZWEI

Ankunft

Many hours later, the jet carrying the aspiring-soccer-player-turned-internist and his companion careered to a halt at its destination airport. The two men stepped out onto the tarmac and looked around, none too sure of exactly where they were. The only thing they could tell was, they definitely weren't in Germany any more: the streets and buildings of Stuttgart had been replaced by an expanse of land without a man-made structure in sight, save for the airport terminal. The occasional English phrase could be heard over the winding down of the airplane's engines, but most were talking in a language that neither Markos nor Hermann recognized.

The boss could have at least sent us somewhere where it's possible for us to at least order a beer, thought Hermann to himself as he lugged his gigantic suitcase off the luggage cart and into a waiting car.

"Relax," said Markos, well aware of his friend's anxiety. "I've been out of Europe more times than I can remember. Everyone speaks a little English."

"Everyone except you," replied Hermann. "And my English leaves quite a bit to be desired."

"Well, if you want to get technical…" Markos wasn't helping things. Even though Hermann was excited to finally be outside of his native country and knew a lot more English than he would ever let on, this new place was giving him more worry than comfort. Disease, big animals, pirates…

"Markos, what about the pirates?"

"Do you see any water around here? Just shut up and get in the car. With your gigantic bag of unnecessary tricks."

"They're not all unnecessary," replied Hermann. "I put a six-pack of Bavaria's finest in there. Wrapped it up in clothes so it wouldn't break in transit."

By the time the car arrived at the remote campsite, which was quite luxurious for a place in the exact middle of nowhere, the duo was well into the bottles of beer. Revenge for Markos's inopportune airplane video was well off Hermann's mind, and Markos was practically asleep already. All the two really cared about, drunk or not, was finding someplace half-decent to rest for the night, having spent hours in a jet and even more time in a car traversing these seemingly-endless plains.

Hermann stepped out of the hired car and went to the trunk to retrieve his suitcase and his cane. Before he ever made it halfway between the passenger door and the back of the car, he felt a mosquito bite him on the arm. "Great," he thought, "tonight's weather, cloudy with a chance of malaria." He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a vial of anti-malarial pills, swallowing one down before tossing an identical vial over to Markos. "Just take them," Hermann said when Markos rolled his eyes at him and put on an expression of mock disgust. "If you get sick, I'll make sure they stick you in the kid's ward back in Stuttgart." It was enough of a threat to get Markos to comply, as he disliked going anywhere near that part of the hospital. With barely enough energy to stand upright, the two travelers made their way through the dark over to where a tent had been set up with a pair of cots; Markos practically free-fell into the sheets, still wearing his shoes and socks, and went to sleep on impact. Hermann attempted to follow suit, drowsily closing the tent flap and lying back on the bed. But just before he could close his eyes, he thought he heard a voice in the distance, someone crying for help, or so it seemed. Hermann sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. The words he heard, or thought he heard, were certainly not in German, but then again, he couldn't even figure out if he had in fact heard anything at all. "Markos", he whispered to his snoring friend, "You awake?"

"Ja, hier," he answered, "I am now. What is it?"

"Did you hear that voice?" asked Hermann. "I thought I heard someone yelling for help."

"No, didn't hear anything, but I'm not surprised you did…that last beer had a roofie in it."

"What?"

"He he, relax, I'm just messing with you. Still falling for that one, even after seven years! You were probably just dreaming; either that, or you need to have your head checked."

"Yeah…must have just been a dream. Check your own head." Hermann forced himself to believe it. He saw the moon had just risen over the mountains in the distance, painting everything earthward in a white-blue light. "Mondnacht," a moonlit night, he thought. "Maybe this was the kind of thing Eichendorff was looking at when he wrote his poetry." He knew the entire poem perfectly from beginning to end, but was asleep before he could think of the first word.