Waiting for rain
Friday, I told H. that I should actually put some of my writings up on this blog, since I write thousands of words a week and maybe it’s time to share a bit of that.
Summary
- Bundle: Waiting for rain
- Chapter 1: When Sarja sings
- We meet the (for now) nameless protagonist, the plains of Sarja and our black companion high in the sky.
- Warnings: None, unless you feel very appalled by the thought of a desert landscape; any resemblance to what you’ve seen or read somewhere else is unintentional and the characters are a fabrication of my own imagination
- Note: It is probably the shortest chapter I have ever written and I have the feeling chapter 2 follows the same trend. It is the first thing I’ve written in a long time that doesn’t tread into the world of the Red Dahlia (the RD resembles a 5.3 MB mess of plain text files sitting on my harddrive).
Waiting for rain is not such a heavy weight. It is the first draft, meaning that the story as yet to evolve and is subject to change along the way. But I like the feel of this landscape enough to share it with you.
Chapter 1: When Sarja sings
The air feels heavy, thick as pea soup. It’s too warm to move, too warm to breathe. I sweat with every step, feeling the salt on my forehead, tasting it on my lips. There is no cooling breeze or shadow, only the blistering sun. My shirt sticks wet to my body and the scarf covering my face feels suffocating. But I won’t take it off because the sun would burn my skin to blisters in minutes. Gazing from underneath the rim of my hat, I scan the horizon, squinting my eyes to see as far as I can. I wonder how many more miles to go. It has been getting harder to move forward, my feet keep sinking in the sand and my thirst is starting to get to me. The black bird high above in the sky knows it. He keeps circling above me, he watches me, like he watches those fairly few animals threatened with dehydration. He is thirsty as well but he doesn’t leave. I first met him miles back, where the greens disappeared to make place for this red barren landscape of broken dreams. He followed me out onto the sands under the scorching sun, knowing that wings are a better means of transportation than feet and he watches down upon me knowing that in due time legs give out and knees buckle. The smug, self-indulgent ruler high above in the sky, waiting for me to give up and fall down.
He must have seen it all happen, how people arrived from the west filled with dreams of green fields and beautiful wooden houses. He must have marveled at their hopes and ideals, how futile and childish they were. He probably knew long before them that their hopes would be shattered when the draught would shrivel the crops and no drill could dig deep enough to bring water up from the ground. This harsh land was never meant to bring forward life, it only knew how to take it. The plains of Sarja, the colonies called it. The fierce goddess of the sun. The colonies knew better than to venture into these lands. Only stupid idealists treaded these sands looking for hope, not knowing that there was no hope to find, only death.
I stumble with heavy feet over a wooden pole barely sticking out from the sand, signs of lost civilization and the bird high above me cries out. I disappoint him by not falling down and keep moving forward, knowing that I need to reach that shack in the distance before the sun reaches it’s highest point. It seems closer than it actually is, I know. It’s the desert playing tricks on my eyes. I look up at the bird and I wonder whether I’ll have to look in his cold, black eyes before I reach the hills. They are at least eight days away. They seem as barren as these sands. But at least there is shadow and maybe even water and life.
It’s been five days since I left the colony, four days since I passed the border onto no-man’s land. And I wonder what I’m doing here, walking through this never changing, unforgiving landscape for days. But I only need to look at the dried black blood on my thigh to be reminded of why I need to keep moving. Rama’s men are still following me. I heard from the colony that they were only two days behind. They are gaining on me. That is why I had decided to cross the desert instead of going around it. His men wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow me to what they probably thought was my death. They would go around it, allowing me to gain one more day’s advantage. Maybe I could even reach the settlement of Prilta before they would catch up with me.
I rub my forehead with the back of my dirty sleeve covering my hand and readjust my hat. The warmth is starting to get to me. My travel sack and my water bag crossing my chest feel heavy like gravity pressing me down three times as hard as usual. It is hard to breathe with all this weight pulling me down, like it is hard to keep moving forward. But I do, one foot in front of the other at a steady rhythm, just because I have to, not because I have the strength. I have been walking since sundown last night and I long for some rest, some water and some food. And most of all, I long for shadow. The shamble shack in the distance, promises all of that. It motivates me to keep moving because there I can rest. I can drink, eat and sleep in the shadows of the creaking wood until the sun moves away from it’s highest point again. There is no point in trying to keep moving forward when Sarja sings her highest note. No man or bird could survive the strain on his body. You would dehydrate quicker than you could drink and even underneath several layers of cloth your skin would still burn. It is better to be still when Sarja sings. Even my black companion, high in the sky knows that. And I wonder just for a slight moment whether he looks at the wooden shack with the same hope as I do.