Riding High Into The Sunrise FICTOID

When the caliph’s staff awoke, they displayed no small consternation among them as to where he might be.

The guards at the gate house and those on the mansion portico swore he did not pass them, but on the other hand the entire rear of the estate opened to the sea.

By the time they finished searching the house and grounds (three times, for those keeping score) and looked in the boat house, he already pedal-paddled many miles out to sea, far over the horizon, born along by favorable winds and tides.

The caliph, quite feverish and dripping sweat, kept pedal-paddling.  He didn’t know how far out he was (not that it mattered).  He dimly wished for a drink of water but had it occurred to him to actually bring a bottle or two along, he wouldn’t have been twenty-six miles due east of his third most favorite resort.

He sat in his seat atop two large pontoons, a bicycle pedal and gears providing peddle propulsion.  He’d been pedal-paddling for several hours, with the sounds of animals rising and falling in his ears.

This he interpreted as commands to take the pedal powered pontoons further out.

Exactly what he suffered from was anybody’s guess.  The doctors said flu but that was clearly wrong (they’d never know, of course, because his body would never be recovered).

The caliph felt no alarm as the waves grew larger, rougher.  He traveled from resort to resort as his illness progressed, never staying in one spot long because his sickness compelled him to strike further and further out.

Now the rising sun lit the sea before him with a bright warm glow, making it seem he traveled on a sea of gold.  I am here, he prayed to the sea.  Come and take me.

And take him it did.

© Buzz Dixon