Galen pondered his answer for a time. With the shadows heavy on him, and with a gaze that looked through Zanist rather than at him, he spoke at last.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I expected to walk into this room…and to die at my father’s feet.”
Zanist and the guards shuffled away in silence.
Galen climbed the throne and sat alone in the dark for a long, long while.
For something like forever.
One Last Journey
Under stars clear and bright, beside a river swiftly flowing, the old couple walked.
They were tired, so tired. They’d marched for weeks, leaving their mountains behind, abandoning their sheltered lives for the wilderness. They’d left their children in the care of strangers. Their home was now empty and cold.
If the world had grown deadlier in the last twenty years, they hadn’t truly seen. With the seeds, medicine, and water-purifying pills given to them by the Pharaoh’s men, they’d carved out a simple life in the mountains’ shadow and lived far longer than ever they’d hoped.
Oh, they’d heard of the suffering, the sorrow, and the death. They’d heard the ships roaring overhead, the thunder foreshadowing the destruction of places far and wide. It was worst during the winters, when black clouds buried the sun and ashes sometimes fell from the skies.
But then, wasn’t it always winter, anymore?
The old couple had agreed upon one thing ahead of all others. They’d known they would one day leave their happy lives behind and make their way to darker lands. When finally that day arrived, when their children were of age enough to survive, they had gathered what food they possessed and left the mountains’ shadow behind.
In their hearts, they knew they’d never see the young ones again.
No one journeyed to the Pyramid and returned.
No one walked the sands untouched.
“My feet are blistered,” complained the husband to the wife as they walked to the music of the water rushing by. “I wonder whether the Lord considers sandals to be machines. If not, I’d like a pair.”
The woman smiled at her beloved. She knew his complaint was only half-serious. He’d always laughed his pains away, knowing hers were far greater. She was older than him, of course, and the wounds she’d suffered long ago haunted her to this day.
“It’ll be easier away from the river,” she said to him. “Fewer rocks. Once we reach the Tabuk, the plains will be soft this time of year. And then,” she added with her still-beautiful smile, “you can complain about the cold instead of your feet.”
They walked for a while longer. The darkness couldn’t hinder them, for the stars shined bright on the water, and the moon was a hanging lantern. Traveling at night was easier for them. They weren’t worried about the Pharaoh’s eyes, of course, but of the sun itself, which wearied them far faster than the brisk night air.
As they went, they saw islands upon the river. The trees were broken and leafless, at least twenty years dead. The stones were blacker even than the night, untouched by the stars, dark as coal. The Black Fleet, stronger now than ever, had been here. The old couple had known to expect such sights, but shuddered nonetheless.
“Will the Lord see us, you think?” the old man asked his wife after many hours of silent walking. “We’ve wondered before, and we’ve talked about the chance we’ll never make it to the Pyramid. But what if we do, and what if he refuses to see us? Wouldn’t that be a waste?”
The old woman thought upon her answer for a while. When a cloud fell across the moon, she shifted her pack to her other arm and looked at her husband in the dark.
“They say he’s miserable, the new Pharaoh,” she said. “That he talks to no one, and reveals his desires to fewer still. But it’s plain to see what he’s doing. We’ve heard the stories, Love. We know in our hearts what he intends. But maybe…given the mercy he’s already shown us…he’ll let us in. He’ll give us audience. It’s all we can hope for.”
“Maybe.” The husband sounded full of doubt.
“We have to show him,” the wife continued. “There is life out here, and it’s not all poisoned. Our children are healthy. The water in our stream is pure. Our little fields are full of flowers. This could be the world again, if only he’ll hear us.”
“Do you still hate him?” asked the husband. “For what he did to your beloved?”
“Hate?” The wife looked puzzled. “No. I never did. How could I? I hated myself. If things had been different, if my sister had survived, the world wouldn’t be this way. I believe that. Always have.”
The husband nodded. He knew his wife was right. He’d seen the kindness in the eyes of the Pharaoh-to-be. It’d never been malice that moved the immortal man’s mind, but a heart a thousand times broken.
The world’s condition is no one man’s fault, he thought.
“I wonder if he’ll listen,” he said. “I wonder if we can really change his mind.” He’d uttered the same thing countless times.
And his wife always answered the same.
“It seems impossible,” she said. “But we have to try. If no one tries, our children’s generation may be the last. And so we’ve nothing to lose.”
The old couple walked right up until the brink of dawn. As the sun crept up in the east, throwing its silver light across the water, the stones, and the sad reeds growing in the sand, husband and wife found a tree a half-century dead. The old thing had been petrified, frozen black by a nameless weapon which had tumbled from the sky.
But the tree had never fallen.
So the couple hung their woven canvas like a tent from the lowest branch and dozed in the shade. Their dreams were deep, and their slumber as restful as any in the world. They had lived good lives despite all, and had found a rare kind of love.
At that very moment, hundreds of miles to the west, the Pharaoh sat upon his throne as he had for many sleepless days.
As he watched them, he wept.
And he heard his mother’s voice pleading.
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Special thanks to:
Garrett
Drifty
Brick-a-Brack
M’s
When Joff Armstrong looks to the night sky…
… the darkness between the stars begins to grow.
Read J Edward Neill’s…
About the Author
J Edward Neill writes philosophy and fiction for adult audiences. He resides in North Georgia, where the summers are volcanic and winters don’t exist. He has an extensive scotch collection, a deep love of red wine, and a deadly black cat named Bacon.
He’s really just a ghost.
He’s here to haunt the earth for few more decades.
Shamble after J Edward on his website:
DownTheDarkPath.com
Lords of the Black Sands Page 33
