I’ll wait here for my Maker. It’s here where I’ll I justify my actions. No one could have stood up to the apes. To help would have been to die. They knew this was a journey filled with danger. But apes? No one had ever known they were here. Should I have helped them? I couldn’t. I’ll tell them that myself in the underworld this night. We are all guilty and this day will set on my dried and broken corpse, as it does on theirs.
The prayer had once more turned again into arrogant justification. Defeated by the vastness of the desert, there was nowhere to hide.
He prepared himself for the blast of the sun’s inferno. Burying his head in his chest, he pulled his cloak’s hood further over his face, praying to quickly drift into oblivion. His mind closed down with scattered images of green palms and pools of cool, clear water. Flashback images of long ago, floating, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and chest and the coolness of the water against his back and head. His most beloved memories surfacing in his final moments. That once warm sun now rushed to fry him in the coming minutes beneath its unceasing fire.
The dreadful heat burned into the back of his head and neck, boiling his brain and pounding on the inside of his skull. Finish it now, he silently screamed, the despair of exhaustion and failure too heavy a load to carry anymore. The unstoppable rush of the rising sun was like a wave charging up the beach, there was no turning it back. No longer able to understand what was happening to him, a final prayer kept circling within the farthest recess of his soul, Let me sleep, please, my God, let me sleep. The sand in front of him was reflecting a stark whiteness. The torture never stopped, but a last unwanted sliver of hope kept his consciousness alive and his pain unending.
Something was burning his face!
A razor sharp heat seemed to cut through the hood of his cloak. Even behind closed eyes, the point of light filled his head with pain.
The sun behind him continued to roast the back of his neck. With an effort that drained his last vestiges of energy, he lifted his hand to ward off the blinding light in his eyes. His reasoning shouted something was wrong, but he could not cope with the effort of processing the message.
In his delirium, he saw it. He reached out, the fabled Crystal, a blazing light in front of him. Beauty beyond imagining. It was here, had been here all along. It was his for the taking, his to own. The power and the glory. He wrapped his fingers around the sharp edges, felt its weight and its warmth. The energy surged through him, rushing to the furthest points of his battered body. It’s mine… I knew it was true… it was all worth it.
He tried opening his sealed eyes, stuck together over dried pupils. Through a slit between unfocused eyelashes, his consciousness registered the reflection in front of him and the full sun behind him. Will there never be peace? he thought, and tried again to close his eyes, covering them with the palm of his hand. But the one thought would not let him rest. It started banging on the inside of his head.
A Reflection, it called, demanding attention.
He wanted it to stop, to drift back into his oblivion, but his brain would not close down. Not yet, one final message to be understood.
A Reflection, it told him again.
One thought became two. I have nothing, no sword, no knife, no prince’s crown. He’d abandoned everything too heavy to carry yesterday in his desperate effort to climb the dune and escape into the depression that might shield him from the full blast of the sun.
A Reflection! his mind shouted.
The chain of thoughts joined, nagging him, pushing away his peace. What is it? What can be reflecting light into your face?
He squinted again, slowly opening his fingers, bringing his world back into focus. A stark white light emanated from the yellow sands.
That’s not right, there shouldn’t be anything there.
He moved slightly to take the reflection from his eyes. Lifting his head, his world became a reality in stark contrasts. The scorching sands and a dark shape, half buried. A glass mirror sewn to a sack, tapering to a point covered in a silver stopper.
A water flagon! his mind screamed. Water!
He pushed himself upright, the effort exhausting him.
How?… Where?… Why? The questions tumbled one into another.
Pulling his legs up beneath him, rising to a kneeling position, a spark of hope drove him on. Shuffling one knee forward, followed by the other, draining the last reserves of energy that the object’s appearance could raise in him. He fell forward desperately reaching for the dark animal skin half buried in the sand, but just outside his grasp. He had to find out if it was empty or not.
Raising himself to his elbows, he crawled forward, his fingers touching the soft leather sack. It was stuck in the sand, it had weight, it had contents. With the wonder and amazement came a last surge of strength. Hope! Always the last to die.
Grasping the silver stopper, he dragged the flagon towards him; heavy, it needed all his effort. Hope! Sometimes lost, but never forgotten.
It must be water, he thought. How is this here, who would have left such a treasure?
It didn’t matter if it was clean or stale, only that it was liquid to release his swollen tongue, to open his constricted throat.
Slowly, his mind told him, drink a little, only a little.
Removing the stopper, he lay with his head to the side, twisting the tapered end of the sack downwards to let the liquid rush over his burnt and blistered lips, breaking the glue that stuck them closed. Draining into his mouth, his body shook with expectation. It was clear, it was cool and it was life.
His hands shook uncontrollably while he swirled it around his mouth, freeing the sand and dirt from his tongue. Turning his head aside, he spat it out, almost in disgust, spitting away the hell of the past week with the grit and the dust. He tilted the neck again, letting it pour through open, greedy lips. Swallowing a little once, twice, three times, his throat opened and came alive. At the first touch of water, his mind jumped to full consciousness.
Cool, sweet water. Nothing in his life had ever tasted so good! The stranger in robes on the dune. It was not a dream.
His questions came again in a rush. But… Who is he? …Why leave this for me?
Fariq
‘He should have been left there, it was God’s will...’
Jarra could see the worry in Fariq’s furrowed brow.
‘... you are not a god,’ Fariq continued.
Jarra tried to cover his smirk. He waited, knowing the next question, having had it thrown at him a thousand times before.
‘What makes you think you have the power over life?’
Jarra inhaled the boiling aromas rising from the pot. Lifting it slightly to keep the simmering just right, the bubbles released their intoxicating scents in his face.
The only thing more important than water in this world is coffee, Jarra thought.
Fariq’s criticisms became a background blur behind the pleasure of creating his personal perfect brew.
How else could we create this elixir of life without water? he asked himself. But then, how could man ever have lived so long without this God given pleasure, that only I know the secret to?
He loved to question his own existence and his own world in these brief moments of introspection. At times like this, he wished for just a moment, that Fariq would shut up and leave him in peace.
Taking long, deep breaths, his body came alive with the aromas rushing from his nostrils to his toes.
Coffee! God’s gift to the civilised people of this world, he smiled again at his own joke.
‘If God had not wanted me to help that man, he would not have sent me there last night,’ Jarra said finally, sure that his blend had reached perfection.
‘And what now? You’ve condemned him to suffer another day, with Ra burning out his eyes and ripping the skin from his lips… and slowly too. Maybe you’re really following the will of the Evil One, whose name cannot be spoken? Did you ever think that?’
Jarra settled himself in the
warm sand. Moving his buttocks from side to side, he formed a comfortable pillow beneath his backside, settling himself for his personal ritual that he loved, his own ceremony to create the perfect coffee mix. His dark robes, now dust and sand stained, draped around his crossed legs.
He looked up from the bubbling pot for the first time. He smiled to his friend, squatting beside him, remembering the timidity that was a part of his character. Fariq, always afraid to do anything in fear of upsetting one of his gods, he thought. Why is it he never seems to age? Has he been condemned to forever look like a teenager? Maybe his abstinence from decision making is what keeps him so young?
‘I’ve stopped trying to keep up with you and your deities,’ Jarra mumbled to himself. ‘If it’s not Ra, it’s Baal, if it’s not him it’s someone else, and if you can’t find anyone else to fear, you blame it all on “The One Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken.” You make my head spin, Fariq. What is his name anyway?’ He looked down to cover the grin he felt rising.
Lucif... ahh... you see,’ said Fariq, shaking his finger in admonition, ‘not only are you tempting your fate and good standing with the gods, you’re also trying to corrupt me and have me thrown into the fiery pit of hell for eternity, for mentioning the name of the “Great Evil One.’
‘Now it’s “The Great Evil One!” That’s a new name. When did he come into being?’ Jarra tried hard to cover his laugh but didn’t quite succeed.
Fariq sat in stony silence, broken only by the popping and crackling of the burning twigs beneath the coffee pot.
Jarra slowly stirred the thickening liquid in the silver pot, raising and lowering it over the flame to keep it simmering, but careful not to let it boil over the edge and waste the precious treasure. He looked around at the unending undulating sand dunes, for just a moment, raising his face to the full blast of the sun.
‘Anyway, the fiery pit of hell can’t be much worse than this.’ The sharp intake of breath startled Jarra.
‘You cannot compare the land of the Holy One to the fiery pit that has no escape and no mercy, that belongs to him Whose Name Cannot be Uttered!’
‘Which Holy One are you referring to now, Fariq? Which holy god in their right mind would create such a place as this and call it heaven on earth?’
The hot winds passed over their camp for a moment, reminding them both of the inferno waiting for them once they packed up and carried on with their journey into the desert.
Jarra savoured the fragrance rising from the bubbling pot, already savouring the bittersweet ground coffee beans, the hint of crushed cardamon, and his own secret mix of spices that in his dreams saw him as a legend, with untold riches throughout the land. Once he could get someone to taste it. Lost in his dream of fame and world gratitude for a moment, he continued stirring in gently turning circles, watching the brown foaming bubbles rise to the lip of the pot before lifting it away from the flames.
‘It must be ready by now!’ Fariq said.
Jarra smiled to himself; the expectation in Fariq’s eyes gave Jarra pleasure to tease him, to make him wait... just a little longer.
He needed to savour the moment, the creation, the expectation of pleasure to come. He continued to hold the pot over the flame, simmering and stirring, one eye on Fariq and one on his black treasure.
‘I’ve heard tell of a place to the north, where clear sweet water bubbles out of the rocks. The people make channels in the ground, like this,’ he drew his stick in a deep gouge through the sand. ‘They direct the water to where they want it. Everyone has water! As much as they like! Wherever they want it! Can you picture that, Fariq? Can you? That is heaven! Where those people live is green, everywhere is green, and tall palms... ‘ he was lost for words trying to describe the wonder of his imagination. ‘Palms taller than ten men cover everything in cool shade, and no man walks with his face in the sun! That, my friend, is heaven.’
‘You’re speaking with words from He Who Cannot Be Named. You are tempting me to turn my back on the Holy One to search for your fairy tale in the air…’
‘It’s no fairy tale, I’ve heard it told by travellers that have been there, they’ve seen it, they know it’s real. Why would they lie?’
‘It is a fairy tale, like the mirage of the bountiful oasis always over the next dune. It’s a story told by men who’ve forgotten their history, who’ve turned their backs on their gods and spent too much time under the sun, reading the forbidden books.’
‘No book should ever be forbidden. If a man has felt it important enough to write down some essential knowledge, then no man should be refused the right to read it.’
‘There is only one book, Jarra, you know that. Come back with me to study the sacred scriptures, forget these books of Histories and Knowledge. Everything we need to know has been given to us in the sacred writing left by the gods.’
‘That worthless scroll you worship? Written by blind scribes and dictated by a power obsessed “Holy Man,” who only wanted to save his golden slippers from getting dirty when he had to run from the apes. No, you are wrong, Fariq; there is only one God, and he has spoken to me.’
The audible gasp interrupted him. Fariq quickly bowed his head to the hot sand to chant his incantations against any evil presence.
‘You should listen to me. I heard his voice. I heard him last night. His voice whispered on the wind but thundered in my ears. My God has a purpose for this man, and I gave him my most precious treasure of water. If he lives or dies is now in the hands of my God, but I know here…’ he thumped his chest for emphasis, ‘Here, inside, I have done what my God asked me.’
‘It was the stranger’s cries that you heard on the wind, not God’s whispers. No good will come of this, you will see. Any man who cries to the winds for salvation is not a servant of the gods, he is a snake that crawls on his belly through the hot sand for eternity, and given only fear and death as his reward.’
Jarra poured the thick black coffee slowly, delicately, into the battered brass bowls. Lost in his ceremony, he no longer heard Fariq’s criticisms.
‘How could you leave your water flagon to such a being? The skin that your mother has sewn, and decorated with her love for you, to keep you safe. She fixed those mirrors to it so that you would never lose it. So that you would never thirst.’
‘She’ll be happy knowing that I gave it to a traveller who would have died without my help,’ Jarra said with finality, passing Fariq the hot bowl lovingly in cupped hands.
‘He will die by tonight. He will drink all the water as soon as the sun comes up and then vomit it back into the sand. He is no traveller; he should have been left for the gods to decide on his life.’
‘My God did decide.’
‘If your god wanted him saved, why didn’t you bring him with you? Why leave him alone, to die a slow painful death walking in circles around the dunes? Ha! You see! I have you. Ha! There is no truth in your madness.’
‘My God spoke to me, Fariq, I know He did. And I was told only to leave the water. Maybe He has another test for the traveller, maybe it’s one of the thousand ordeals that man must endure before reaching the gates of shade and comfort. Maybe his test is harder than most for a reason.’
‘Yes, maybe he insulted one of the gods and was driven here to burn under the fiery inferno of Ra’s gaze.’
‘We will see. If he dies tonight, then I’ve lost my mother’s gift of love. But if he lives... then maybe, just maybe, it is a sign that the time of the animals is drawing to its end, and we may return to the lands of our ancestors, by the sea.’
‘Ha! And Ha again!’ Fariq stabbed his finger in Jarra’s direction. ‘I never understand why I continue to travel with you, Jarra. You live in your world of dreams, bring curses down upon my head for even listening to you, and tempt He Who Cannot Be Named to seek you out for special treatment. I just don’t know why I bother.’
‘Because I make you think, Fariq, and because life is never boring with me… and because I’m the only one that’ll put up with
you,’ Jarra said with a grin. ‘Come, drink up, smell the aroma of my secret mixture that only I know, and people will one day pay a king’s ransom for, once we get to Om.’
‘Om! You said we were going to PEERA!’
‘I changed that plan three days ago, my friend. You really would be lost in this desert without me,’ Jarra said.
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—ABOUT THE AUTHOR—
Shaun L Griffiths writes Epic Fantasy from his home in the forests of Poland, a place where bears and wolves still roam free. He is the best selling author of Shifters Alliance, Part 1 of the Changing Times trilogy.
ARROWS & ANGELS
Kristin D. Van Risseghem
Chapter One
The Archangel Michael appeared, regal as always, on the top step of the palace balcony overlooking Heaven’s meeting square. He paused, his eyes roaming over the crowd. Dressed in a deep blue, gauzy robe, his feet strapped in golden sandals, he descended the white marble stairs with his magnificent gray wings extended. His hand glided down the solid gold banister, a faint smile on his face.
“I seek volunteers. The human species and not the dinosaurs will soon rule the Earth. The humans, or Ordinaries as we refer to them need our help.” His smooth voice projected over the assembled guardian angels. “The Council of Angels has requested we disperse to the Earth realm and watch for the birth of an Ordinary child. The fairies have proclaimed that an Ordinary girl will unite us and stop Armageddon. I met with King Oberon of the Summer Fairies’ court to glean any additional information. All he shared was that this human girl will be special. People will flock to her. She will be one with all Enlightens. Her task will be to get them to join her and stop the first fallen angel’s escape from his current prison and bringing Armageddon.”
That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction Page 44
