#desert mage

Inspired by “Logos” by Ludovico Einaudi

It was cold, and dark, and there was no moon in the sky. That could not yet be seen–the tunnels were lit only by bewildering veins of pale turquoise ore with a faintly shimmering glow.

At last, emerge from the tunnel, climb onto the hard rock of the boulder-like mountains. Side down the stone–granite and easy to get scratched by–and–

Easy to forget–the tiny grains of rock on the ground liked to bite the feet of unwary travelers. The slight rises and dips of the scrub-covered hills tended to trip anyone who stepped too quickly or without testing the fickle sand. If one was really unlucky, they might splash into one of the rare freezing pools that studded the landscapes.

    But there was no time for caution. No time at all. Tripping over dunes and hillocks, stumbling on stones and pebbles, tumbling down in dust and sand because hurry hurry hurry.

    The nights were easier than the day to travel–it was too hot in the day, or, if one was unlucky enough to be traveling in winter, darkened with all the snow of a white-out blizzard. An odd quirk of this particular climate–it liked to snow during the day and frost during the night.

    Trouble with that was, there was little cover to be found. Trees–scrappy short things that were often more bush than tree–were not helpful in that regard, and usually clustered around water. The ones that could be of use were often dens for coyotes or ring-tailed cats, and they were not easily scared away.

    There was no time for resting anyway. Walking through the night, walking through the day. It was all the same. Time was an illusion anyway. So were the sore feet.

    The moon passed. The sun set. The moon rose. Over and over.

    Faint awareness of hitting the ground with the half moon up above.

    Blackness.

    Light.

    The moon was full.

    Back up, back to walking. Ignore the pain.

    Hurry hurry hurry.

    The landscape was flattening, escaping the lumpy foothills of the great stone mountains into a dirty, scrubby plain. There were deer here, and ground squirrels, and tiny foxes with ears that were half the size of their bodies. The scrub was a bit more lush, yet there were even fewer oases than in the foothills. All drank by animals, or dried up by the voracious wind or thirsty heat.

    Not a priority. Hurry.

    Getting close. The shape of and faint mirage blurring the horizon was familiar, from long-lost memories.

    Years and years ago. Not this time. Not staying. Leaving again, and never coming back this time. Not for anything or anyone.

    Two weeks. Usually took four to reach the destination. It was not far, though, not hard to tell, thanks to memory.

    One more hill and–

    Eerie, soft-stoned towers, slowly crumbling. Little abandoned strip shops. Ruined houses. Plants growing in the once-pounded down streets. Trampled farmland on the edges. What used to pass for farmland–it never really had been. Fruit trees on the outskirts of everything. All standing at the edge of a huge canyon, water screaming its quick motion against rock in the ravine’s depths.