Sunset Restitution: Egg Hunt

Dawn approached the desert differently that morning. In some ways, the deviation was barely noticeable; light still crested the horizon, sending gold spreading over cool sand like an infection. Plants that had been on the land for decades slowly began coming to life, while habitual early-risers waited patiently for the day’s first breath to warm their faces. The sky, ever consistent in its inconsistency, still held the same fading constellations from the night before. In all the ways it didn’t matter, the desert awoke as it always did. 

The peace didn’t last past daybreak. 

A scream is what did it, what broke the stillness that lay heavy over the morning. It came from a village that lived just off the bank of a feeble river, the sound echoing up and down the dunes. It stretched out, out, out, until its severity turned into something like music notes, a sweet, desperate song to welcome the sun. 

The sun did not disappoint. 

It burst over the western horizon in the form of a giant bird, instantly transforming the gentle dawn into something violent, something sinister. The steady gold color creeping across the sand became blazing with every flap of its wings, the night-cool turned scorching with each twitch of its head. The creature that rose into the sky was a huge, blinding thing as it retraced the steps it had made at dusk. 

Another scream emerged from the city. Then another, then another. Unnatural in pitch, an eerie yet beautiful harmony rising in volume as each new set of eyes adjusted to the light rising in a way it never had before. 

The thief, for his part, had been gone for hours by then. He had felt it approaching the night before, tasted the anticipation that settled like dust all around him. 

He was an old man, ancient in every sense except physical. His hands were calloused and torn from a life spent exposed to the harsher elements, and his face, darkened and covered in freckles, held the scars to prove it. While others struggled across sand dunes with their feet sinking into the grain, he ran with perfect ease. 

It felt like he didn’t do much else these days. 

The sun swept across the sky, each beat of its celestial wings casting the desert in an unearthly grow. It was easily ten times the size of the village, and even from a distance, its anger was palpable. Its gasoline eyes were focused on the thief in the distance, and it raced towards it as fast as its hulking frame would allow, uncaring of the destruction it left behind. 

In the interim, the people in the village had erupted into movement. Screams still split the air, still haunting and rhythmic, but they were less composed, less purposeful. People young and old raced through the streets, gathering loved ones and rushing towards the bank of the river. The bird, in all its fury, was a beacon of scorching heat, one that they could feel on their faces, on their backs, in their hair as it grew closer and closer. 

The first person to reach the river took a running start and dove in, sending a rush of water up around him. He immediately turned back towards the bank, beckoning others to follow while struggling to keep his footing. More people rushed forward, desperate to escape the terrible heat that moved ever closer, splashing into the shallows and huddling at the edge of the point in which the current would whisk them away. 

Behind them in the west, the sun finally reached the edge of the village. 

The first building immediately went up in flames, its thatched roof easy prey for the immense heat. The next caught fire as well, and the next, until the bird flapped its giant wings, sending gusts of hot air up and down the streets. One beat was enough to carry it high into the brilliant sky, and those who hadn’t ducked underneath the waves at its approach let out a cry of relief. Two more flails and it had cleared the village entirely, leaving the homes in ruins but the people crouching in and around the river unharmed. People surfaced from under the water, shaking droplets from their faces and turning them towards the sun’s retreating form. They watched as it moved further and further away, still a threat, still dangerous and terrifying, but with fading adrenaline and an overwhelming sense of relief. 

The thief, still running across the desert, glanced over his shoulder, and began to move even faster. For one brief moment, he stopped, skidding across the sandy ground and dumping the large bag he carried on his back to the ground. He hurriedly pulled it open, rummaging around inside it before pulling out a tiny blue orb. It was a sweet blue color, rich and dark, with green splotches scattered across its surface. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to admire its beauty, the way it seemed to glow and shimmer. Then he tucked it into his pocket and kept running. 

Kept running. 

Kept running. All he did was run. 

The sun was gaining on him quickly. 

It hurled through the sky, shattering it into pieces. Its form flickered and burst at random intervals, and the thief could almost taste its rage. He was starting to feel its heat on his back, noticed droplets of sweat sliding down to the base of his neck and beading at his hairline. His shadow, bobbing in front of him as he ran, grew shorter and shorter with his time. He felt the weight of the orb, the egg in his pocket, and it felt as though it grew heavier and heavier with each sinking step he left in the sand. 

The bird was close. It stretched its wings wide, and its talons, carved from molten rock and steaming in the air, reached out towards the thief. 

Keep running, thought the thief. A stray stone caught his foot and he fell to his knees, scrambling forward, gazing backwards as the sun grew closer. Keep running. 

Keep running. 

In the coming weeks, that day would be described differently by all who saw it. People living in the village would travel to far-off places, telling stories of the giant bird that burned their crops and destroyed their homes. Mothers and fathers would rock their babies to sleep, whispering about the time the sun came for them but left them spared. Future generations would point to the places where the earth crumbled and the aftereffects of that unnatural dawn still lingered. There was never any explanation, not from the sun who dipped into the eastern horizon and rose again there the next morning, nor from the sky, the stars. All they had was the memory of the morning in which a huge bird chased a lone figure across a desert wasteland, searching for an important prize, and the knowledge that, the next day, it rose just as it always had.