51
OPINION, INTERVIEWS & FEATURES CREATIVE WRITING
Desert Edward Cook (Year 13)
that disappear with their riders. It was not the dunes that took them, they say, but the shadows. I scoffed when I first heard of these stories; nothing more than hysteria induced by the sun. But those stories are becoming very real. Too real. I must go on, however, for giving up is the first thing they want me to do. The sun is melting into the horizon; its watch over the earth has ended. Finally some respite from this blasted furnace. But the night brings its own dangers. It swaps insufferable heat with numbing cold. A blinding sun for a crepuscular mist that shrouds the mountains and dunes. Great winds hurl sand across the desert like a breath full of glass. These are only the environmental dangers. Brigands and thieves emerge from the canyons in small bands, silently baying for loot and chaos. I can already see their camps, nestled in the now blue rocks, with those glowing lamps and shimmering fires signalling a night of bountiful anarchy. I am drawn to their wild carnality; in fact, I find my heart pulling me toward their whirlwind of a life. I too am an exile, a nomad skirting the fringes of civilisation, forever cursed to wander. While I do not relish my current state, I must admit there is something liberating in being on the run. The thrill of the chase, some may say. No, it is not that. It is the thrill of dangerous freedom. I can do what I want. The power that comes from vulnerable liberty; liberty one would die for because one knows it will be taken away. I find myself on a ridge of butchered rock that provides ample observation of the camps. The camel begins to lower his fore legs, then his rear ones, in a beleaguered display of deference to me. I hop off his hump, adorned with flaying tassels and worn rugs which, now that he is sitting, make him look like a tent. But there is no shelter here as I unpack my binoculars, crawling on my belly to the edge of this cliff. I peer through, now able to see the fluttering gaggle of canvases in full detail. The inhabitants seem to be in a hurry, dashing from tent to tent. They are assembling their camels and horses now, resplendent in stolen finery. Moving out into the upended wastes they ride, champing at the bit as their grizzled leader propels them forward over dune and pebble. The last image I am left with as they disappear into the purple horizon is a heap of sabres spasming above the heads of cross-belted thugs in a dance of crescent fury.
I slip through the cracks, popping out of the canyon’s orange maw and into a new world: a dead world full of devoured beauty. The sun looms high in the crystal blue dome above me, a raging iris that has followed me incessantly since dawn. I tighten my headscarf, a futile attempt at shelter, but an attempt nevertheless. I am beginning to smell, despite the fact I have no moisture to sweat out. Moisture. How we take it for granted back home, when we have it in flowing abundance. But out here, where even the rocks feel parched, I would give anything for a drop. Just a drop, nothing more. I am denied this humble wish, but I am not surprised. It is my penance to wander this Arabian Arctic. My camel is the only innocent party in all this, trudging morosely from pad to pad until we stop for the night. What misguided loyalty. He doesn’t know I have designs for the water-filled humps I sit on now. But I am not at that stage yet. Yes, yes, it’s cruel. He has served me well, a fine and noble transport indeed. But the chains of civility still hold me back from my survival. Don’t blame me; many would have pounced on this refreshing opportunity before even reaching the desert. How much longer can I go until that shambling id I have buried deep within kicks down the door and screams its triumphant, infantile return? The beast stops to urinate; maybe he can hear me? Maybe he wishes to mock my murderous ruminations with his perfectly clear piss? I almost respect his reserves of pluckiness. Animals, wild ones especially, have the peculiar ability to just keep on going through hardship as if nothing has happened. I remember a warthog in Tanzania that trotted into my camp with a huge Masai spearhead lodged in its forehead, I think it considered it an accessory to its proud tusks. I feel sick. Heatstroke. Dehydration. I fear something worse. I do not know my particular malady, but I feel weaker by the day. I’m now a shrivelled prune compared to what I was when I arrived in Jerusalem, a sad little vegetable covered in sand and stubble. I think of nothing but the eyes looking for me. Every so often I swivel about, expecting to see a lone black dot shimmering in the distant sands. I know they have sent one after me; I know the stories of what happens to people who have done what I have done. The Bedouin recount tales of camels
God, I wish I could join them.
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker