Dry

The sun washes through the land from the moment it opens its uncaring eye, intensifying and flexing its might as the day goes on. For the goliath of fire, the day is barely the blink of an eye, for the tiny miracles on the surface of the planet who rely upon that ball of fire for their very existence, it is interminable.

The magnifying glass of this endless Summer burns the land and the little boy holding the glass, under which all the living creatures scurry, cares nothing for the game he plays. It is as though he left some while ago, distracted by another toy or the promise of a sweet treat, whatever the truth of it, Summer has forgotten it’s place and however much Autumn taps it on the shoulder and asks for the next dance, there is no shifting it from the dancefloor.

Time has ceased to have meaning. The only time that counts is the present and surviving long enough to prolong the moment. The past and the future have been burned away until all that is left is the light and the heat and the dry dust of the path ahead. Even at night, the sun does not let up. It hides just out of sight, but the fires continue to rage and sleep is but a distant day dream. 

We move at night, it is better that way. To move during the day is folly. The sun renders skin to brittle parchment and dries the bones. But it isn’t just the sun that drives us along in the dead of night, it is the others.

We have taken to calling them the others because the relentless heat has burned away our humanity. The sun has burned and burned and burned until there is damn near nothing left. I used to hope that a seed of what we once were remains deep within us. A seed that will grow again when the rains eventually come. The rains that will wash away our sins, forgive us and afford us a second chance, to start again. Now I think we are well past that, that we are the walking dead and there is no life left to us.

I’m no fool. We are also the others. We’re no better than any of them out there. I seem to recall our having started out with good intentions, but this is hell and the path we walk goes nowhere. Our days ended some time ago, we’re just too stubborn and belligerent to accept it. We set out with hope in our hearts, but now we don’t have a heart between us. All we have left is the habits we formed long ago. We are the tumbleweed blown along by the breath of the devil himself.

We are mad. We do the same thing day in and day out and we expect a different outcome. We are searching for something that does not exist, that cannot exist. We are driven ever onwards because to stop is to die and maybe, just maybe, we have a chance. It stands to reason, because after all, life finds a way.

And so we walk and we walk, always walking away from that vicious and cruel sun, but never getting any further away from it. If anything, it creeps a little closer day by day. Ever so slowly it edges closer until one day it will erase us from this rock we are desperately crawling along.

They trust me despite all of this. They have placed that trust in me and there’s a thin seam of belief in it. I am their talisman. I know this is their way of looking away from their fate. I am a distraction and they have given me the responsibility that they should rightly carry. There is also hate there. I am the focal point for their pain. I walk ahead of them and I know I have a target on my back. I am to blame for all of this. I am their scapegoat.

Once, we searched for gold. Plenty died when they thought they had hit a rich seam. Fool’s gold is poison, but it quickly got to a point where the sensation of any liquid on lip and tongue, and throat was all that mattered. The stocks of all the precious liquids in this land dwindled away, the relentless sun taking them from us until now we are on a quest for a legend, we live in the time of myths, but there are no gods looking down upon us, this land is godless, abandoned.

Water is our grail, but I am no Arthur and none of us are knights. If I was superstitious, I would pray for a Merlin, but then in a land like this, the magic would be cracked and corrupt and he would be a foe even if he extended the hand of friendship.

Towards the end of each night, as the last of the darkness is drawn away, we make camp. So adept are we at our business, that we gravitate towards suitable shadows that will afford us shelter in the furnace that approaches.

Some while back Tarak took to telling stories to keep our spirits up. Tarak was not a natural story teller, but that was to miss the point. That one of our number was willing to pick themselves up and use some of their time and their energy to help us all along the way, that was enough. It was enough and it was more.

Over time Tarak’s stories grew more and more substantial and Tarak’s confidence grew with those stories. There were flourishes in his tales that evoked emotion, even to see dried and cracked lips raise in a smile was a miracle of sorts. 

Once, the well of Tarak’s stories was small and limited. The stories quickly became familiar, but this was a comfort. Old friends come to visit. But as Tarak grew in stature so too did the well from whence his stories came. New stories came to the fore. At first these were stories of times past, but then there were references to our here and now. A word here or there, then this grew to phrases and then Tarak began telling stories of what lay ahead of us.

There is one story that stands out from all else, the tale of a pool of water. Water of the clearest blue. That water is cool and refreshing and lifegiving. There is an abundance of water in that pool and it is the promise of life that none of us have seen for so long. That pool is our salvation. 

I see the effect the story of the pool of water has on everyone and I see it for what it is. This is an impossible dream, and it is a danger to us. This story is not Tarak’s. I do not know where it came from, only that it is no good. There is a change in us and Tarak’s words are responsible. Tarak’s story will be the undoing of us. Our people have become listless and suspicious and soon the questioning will start. 

We are lost if the questioning starts. We hang by a ragged and charred thread and we have so little left to us, so something must be done.

It is Tarak’s time.

Every few days, I go for the walk with one of our number. The walk is a privilege and an honour. Only the worthy are chosen. The walk is also necessary. Our resources are limited and as we walk the parched and dying land we must eke out what we have left. We must do this until we find further resources. We have not encountered any of the others for some while now and I fear that we may now be the last of us, or as close to that as matters. 

The walk is a moment when I send one of our number on ahead to scout for us. The chosen person will only return when they have found sufficient resource for us all. There are tales of the chosen having found a place of plenty but electing not to return along the scorched path for us. This is understandable. No one would choose to venture out into this barren and merciless land.

As Tarak learns that he is chosen for the walk, he gives me a fleeting look. He knows, and I wonder whether he will go easy or make a stand. I find that I am surprised when he nods with submission and resignation, but I am not relieved. Instead I am wary. Tarak’s stories have changed him and I find him cunning and treacherous.

The chosen travel light. They are charged with travelling ahead at speed. We are a practical people. Tarak and I walk into the darkness, walking closely, but not too closely, side-by-side. When we are sufficiently distant from camp Tarak elects to speak.

“You do not need to do this, Maz,” he says to me. His voice is flat and there is no emotion there. He is not pleading, this is merely a statement of fact.

“Do what?” I ask him.

Tarak sighs, “if you are to do this, then at least send me on ahead.”

I do not answer, there is nothing for me to say.

“The story of the pond is not a story, Maz. I have seen it. I have visions of the place and it is no pond. My story is a pale and inadequate representation of what lies ahead of us, I did not want to cause anything like panic by sharing my vision with anyone, but now we are almost upon it and you must know this,” his zealous eyes shine in the dark, “It will be the saving of us, Maz. It is a huge lake of the finest blue and in my visions I can now almost feel it’s cool caress. We are that close now.”

I turn to him, annoyed at his words. He is making this hard on the both of us. Harder than it has to be. “How has it survived all this time?” I ask him.

“It is underground,” he says earnestly.

I nod then, “and I suppose you are the only one who knows the way to this underground magical lake?”

Tarak shrugs, “you might find it. Then again, you might walk right on past it. I have no way of knowing, if I am not there. All I know is that I have the visions.”

“Words,” I hiss, “you are a fine one with the weaving of words.”

“Can you take that risk?” he says to me, “what if I am right?”

“We cannot live on a what if, Tarak as well you know. There may be water two days ahead of us, but if we don’t have two day’s-worth of water, then we are dead.”

“You don’t talk of water though do you?” says Tarak bitterly.

They are not the last words I hear him speak, he speaks one last time before we part ways.

I walk back alone, and I have more water for the remainder of us. Only our water is not blue. It is red.

The last words Tarak uttered before I did what I had to do, what I always had to do, they will haunt me. All of the chosen haunt me, but Tarak has a special place in the hall of my ghosts now.

You won’t lead them to water, Maz.

You can’t.

If they ever see water again, they will know.

They will know what you did.

And it will send them mad.

I know you did what you thought was necessary, but it will end you and it will end them. You have taken them to a place that they will never leave and they are all damned.

Soon the sun comes up and the world is on fire again. We walk through hell, this drought has gone on for so long that that’s all there is, hell on Earth, until we are all of us burned away, consumed by the purifying fires and we are no more.