Wanderers, we had neither food nor water.

Thin clouds combed the sky. Dunes rolled and glowed with dense heat. Only pebble pyramids – remainders – broke the monotony. Then the wind began. Lifted sprays of sand. Stung faces and hands.

We spied striped chimneys. Head down, one foot after another, we stumbled into an abandoned refinery. Skeletal, rusted. Picked over long ago. The wind threw sand sheets. We sheltered under halves of rusted drums.

Then the earth’s convulsions stopped. The wind stopped. We pressed on to dusk.

A distant city. A mirage? Colorful, low set.

Some way out, a delegation of penguins received us. A dozen or so. Four feet tall. Dark feathers faded. Surrounding us. Their beaks tapped and spat guttural sounds.

Two who held black batons stamped them on the sand.

One waddled close. Once-yellow whiskers worn white. One eye permanently shut. He looked professorial. Or senile. He inquired in faltering Spanish as to our intentions. He looked up at me expectantly.

We mean no harm, I replied.

He explained this to the others who flapped their flippers and squawked. Then they led us into their city. Every building was constructed from Lego but melted according to a spectacular decorative scheme. Our interpreter proudly pointed out the various effects: Egyptian Speckles, Prisms, Frozen Drips. He led us on a grand avenue, lit with plastic flowers atop poles that sparkled rainbow colors. He led us to a boxy, yellow tower.

There, on a raised dais in a long hall, stood the king. He wore a shiny, silver coat and half of a mirror ball on his head. Flanked by thick-set guards armed with batons, he blinked at us with narrow eyes. He remained silent as the professor chattered awhile.

The sovereign flapped his flippers and gave an impatient squawk. The professor bowed and escorted us out. He then led us on a tour.

Our city, he told us, was founded long ago around a series of ancient wells.

He showed us the deep holes and a row of covered ponds filled with fish.

Our red crabs constructed this city, he explained, and now work the wells and fish pens. As well as fish, we eat crabs. But only on feast days.

An orderly line of penguins waited outside the communal baths. On the other side, a similar line emerged, feathers shining under the streetlights. I asked the professor about the energy source. He shook his head. We stepped aside as six stalk-eyed crabs, the size of large dogs, scuttled past ahead of two baton-wielding penguins.

The batons, explained the professor, deliver electric shocks.

He took us into a vast dining hall that echoed with the metallic buzz of penguins. We crouched at a spare table where the professor offered us each a plate of miserable fish and a cup of brackish water. I professed our gratitude. He smiled, waddled off, and returned with a cup of sweet, shaved ice for each of us.

Then he led us back to the king’s hall. This time, the king wore a string of silver necklaces to compliment his mirror-ball hat and sparkling cloak. We stood below his dais and waited as penguins crammed noisily into the hall. When it was full, the king let out a loud squawk.

Silence.

He stared at us. Flapped his flippers.

You must, whispered the professor, sing for the king.

We looked at each other. The king’s guards tapped their batons.

I began to sing Liberate the Platform for the Motherland. We fumbled through the first and second verses but faded out in the third because no one could remember the words.

Silence.

Restless beak snaps echoed from the hall’s plastic walls. Tapping batons.

More, whispered the professor, you must sing more.

I suggested My Definition. We repeated the first verse three times. Then sang a nursery rhyme. We did the actions, opening and closing our hands, slapping our cheeks and foreheads in time.

We know no more, I said to the professor.

He sighed. Snapping beaks. Guttural hoots and screeches. Tapping batons.

The king let out a loud, impatient squawk, flapped his flippers, turned, and waddled down the dais and out the hall. Still making guttural sounds, the penguins filed out after him.

The professor led us to our sleeping quarters. Its walls were lined with crab cages. We slept fitfully in this windowless room floored with straw. Crabs scratched at the bars and snapped their claws all night.

The professor arrived at dawn accompanied by two guards. He led us to the city gate and pointed a direction with his flipper. He winked his one good eye and said, Adios amigos, over and over. I looked back from the top of the first dune and saw him still standing at the gate.

Crinkled mountains on the horizon. Dull pulse below.

There may be trees ahead.

We press on.