Chasing Shadows

Sand. Everywhere I looked was damn sand.

The heat was unbearable as I ran across the dunes, my boots sinking into the soft grains of golden sand and slowing me down. Sweat trickled down my back and when I wiped my brow my hand came away wet.

Even the wind was hot. The gentle breeze ruffled my damp hair and offered no solace at all. The desert was stifling and never ending.

So much damn sand.

And me, a sad, slogging shape of beige that blended perfectly against the dunes. Was I fated to become part of them? Alone, abandoned, fading to dust?

No. In the distance a shape. A mirage? The buildings were the same golden colour as the sand and shimmered in the heat but as I drew closer they didn’t vanish. They were real, solid buildings. Three of them and a small fenced off area where they kept a couple of horses tied up under some makeshift shade; what looked like a bedsheet stretched over some wooden poles.

A sun-bleached, beat-up jeep sat between the triangle of buildings, rotting before my eyes. The wind tore at a flake of curling, rusted white paint on the door.

“Hello?” I gasped, staggering into the courtyard.

A length of string had been tied between two of the buildings and clothes were hung over the line, dancing gently in the breeze. It was a perfect day for drying, I noted. Except the clothes on me, those were soaked through.

A scurrying sound to my right but when I turned there was nothing there. Just more sand blowing across the compacted earth of the courtyard.

“Hello?” I tried again, approaching the entrance to the largest of the buildings.

There was no door, just an archway with an ill-fitting dangling bead curtain. The plastic beads had once been green but were now faded almost to white. They clacked as I pushed them aside and entered the golden building.

Inside was cooler but not by much. The ground was a mosaic of tiles but the patterns didn’t match. There was sand here too, a light covering over the floor, gathering in the yellowed grooves.

My boots trailed in more sand and my footsteps echoed in he strangely roomy hall. The ceiling was high and brightly coloured tapestries hung by the walls. Close to the doorway a little altar sat with figurines, a portrait and a small bowl of burning incense that lent the heavy damp air a delicate floral and fruity scent.

From deeper in the house a metallic clank rattled.

“Hello?” I asked once more, making my way into the next room. “Sorry to intrude, I got lost. I really need water, if you have any?”

The room was a kitchen. The floor was stone, along with walls and a large central table held a slab of uncooked meat. A pot was boiling on the stove and chopped vegetables sat on a thick wooden chopping block waiting to be dunked.

A woman was watching me. Her thin hand held a large, heavy knife.

“Hello?” I tried, feeling more apprehensive. I didn’t want to hurt anybody and I didn’t want to get hurt myself. I lifted my hands in front of me. “I’ll leave if you want. I just wanted some water. I’m lost.”

Large, chocolate eyes watched me for a moment longer, then set the knife on the table. Without taking her gaze off me she reached for a glass on the counter behind her, then filled it from a jug next to the meat. She held it out.

“Thank you.” Even if she was trying to poison me, I didn’t care. After walking for over an hour in the desert my brain was starting to hallucinate from dehydration. I lifted the cup and drank greedily, the warm water tasted slightly earthy and was painful on my raw throat but right then it was delicious and I could have drunk ten cups.

I gasped breathlessly as I drew the cup back from my lips and my tongue darted out to catch the droplets from my lips and instantly I sighed in relief as my body soaked up the liquid like a sponge.

“Thank you,” I repeated, handing back the cup.

She nodded, then refilled it. Only half full this time, the last few drops of brown tinted water dribbled from the lip of the jug as she shook it with a frown on her face. She set it on the table and handed me the cup back.

“No, thank you, I couldn’t.”

She shook the cup. It would be rude to refuse.

I downed the half cup and felt even better. My mind was sharper, the dull ache that had been building in my temples receded.

I set the cup down and this time the woman didn’t make to refill it. I pointed at myself. “I’m Emily.”

The woman just nodded. Whether she understood or not I didn’t know but if she did understand then she simply chose not to reveal her own name. My desert army fatigues probably aroused distrust even if she didn’t want to actively see me die of dehydration.

“Right. Well, thank you for the water. I need to get going now but thank you. I’ll remember this.”

The woman frowned again and set down the knife she had picked up. She beckoned to me then disappeared through an open doorway to another room. Assuming I was to follow, I shuffled after her, feeling large and clunky in my uniform.

She was waiting patiently in a beautiful room of vivid colours. Tapestries on the wall and floor depicted scenes of sunsets and rivers and sand dunes and stars. A small gasp escaped my lips as I stepped closer and observed the beautiful handiwork that had gone into them.

When I turned back to her, she was pointing to a small, well-worn sofa. It was stony grey, but a red crocheted blanket had been draped over it for decoration.

“I couldn’t, I’m filthy,” I protested.

She pointed again, then left the room as if knowing that I would do as she suggested.

I was tired. Exhausted, actually. And with no way of knowing how much further I had to go it seemed silly to go out again without resting up first. My mind was settled; spend an hour resting, then with a fresh mind have another go at making my sat nav work.

The moment I sat on the sofa I was engulfed; I sank back into the folds of fabric that swallowed me whole. There was barely time to kick off my boots before my body responded to the luxuriously soft padding of the sofa and I was away, my eyes fluttering closed and my mind drifting.

Dreams came and went. One hour turned into four.

I woke to the smell of stew wafting from the kitchen, a thick, homely scent that had my stomach rumbling. The dusty memories of my dreams seemed to fade away. The roar of the gunfire, the screams of the dying. The wall of heat of an incendiary blast. It was all banished by the smell of homecooked food. How long had it been? I’d survived on rations for so long.

When I turned to the doorway I saw a large pair of eyes watching me curiously. A girl, no more than five or six, hovered by the door, clutching a children’s book.

“Hello,” I tried.

She smiled and nodded, whether understanding and responding to my greeting, or just being polite, I didn’t know.

“I’m Emily. Who are you?”

The girl said nothing but slowly approached, holding out her book to me.

“You want me to read to you?” I asked.

Her response was to hop up onto the sofa beside me, drawing her legs underneath her and snuggling up to my side. Her bare feet wormed under the blanket for warmth and she blinked up at me, waiting.

I plucked the book from her hands and set it in my lap. The words were foreign to me but were at least in the Latin alphabet. There were few pages, so despite its size the book wasn’t long. The pages were thick like cardboard and printed brightly with pictures of the main character, a blue and green striped cat.

So I began to read. The girl giggled softly to herself as the foreign words passed my lips and I must have been mispronouncing them something terrible but she never spoke to correct me. She listened and nodded along and by the time the cat had finished his adventure and found the balloon he had been searching for, her eyes were drooping and her head was heavy and warm against my shoulder.

Standing slowly, I gently let her down to lay on the sofa and tucked the crochet red blanket around her sleeping form. Then I headed through to the kitchen where the woman I had seen earlier was setting out three bowls.

“Thank you for letting me rest here,” I said.

She shook her head and pointed to a pale blue painted wooden chair by the table. A man was sitting on another chair, his face obscured by the newspaper he was reading.

“I couldn’t, you’ve already done so much,” I protested. But really I was starving, so when she again waved at the chair I didn’t protest, I sat. the man didn’t acknowledge my presence.

When I tried to rise and help set the table the woman shooed me away. Soon there was a hunk of fresh-baked crusty bread beside each of our bowls and then the pot of stew was brought over and a portion ladled into each of our bowls.

The man set aside his newspaper, folding it neatly in four, then placed it beside his bowl. With a nod to the woman but still no acknowledgment to me, he picked up his spoon and tasted. A satisfied smile spread on his lips and he began to eat.

The woman seemed pleased at that, then took her own spoon but didn’t eat. She was watching me. Waiting for my appraisal. Quickly I dipped my spoon and tasted; it was heavenly. Slightly spicy, a thick broth with melt-in-the-mouth vegetables and tender chunks of meat. I smiled brightly and the woman seemed pleased as she began to eat for herself.

When the soup and bread were finished I thanked her again for her hospitality and I rose to help with the washing up., She allowed this and together we cleaned the dishes and cookery equipment. Once we were finished I made to leave but again she shook her head.

Out of the window I could see the problem; night had fallen. The sun was a mere golden smudge on the horizon. If I left now I’d be lost and cold.

This time she took me through to a sparsely furnished room. The bed was simple, with a woollen cover and thin pillow. There was nothing else in the room. But it was plenty and I thanked her again as she retreated from the room.

After a quick bathroom trip I took off my boots again and stripped my jacket and trousers. The sheets were cool but warm, perfect for the desert night. Despite my nap earlier sleep came easily. So did the nightmares.

The bombings. The gunfire. The death. The screaming. The blood.

Someone calling for help. Calling my name.

“Turner! Turner! Turner!”

“Turner!”

Someone really was calling my name. I sat up like I’d been electrocuted, my brow soaked in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes darted back and forth searching for the person calling for me…

“Brad?” I asked, my gaze focusing on my team mate.

His bulk filed the door frame and he was looking at me strangely. “Yeah, we tracked you here. Thought you were…well, glad you’re alive. Here drink this. Smart move finding shelter.”

“Yeah, the family here were very kind,” I said, rubbing sleep from my eye with the heel of my hand and accepting the bottle of smart water he handed me. I felt dizzy and out of sorts and downed half the bottle in one.

When I sat up and put my feet on the ground, I realised my boots were already on my feet. And I was wearing my trousers. For a moment I felt disoriented, hadn’t I got undressed last night? And where was the blanket I had laid under?

Brad blinked. “Family? What family?”

“The family here, “I said, looking about for the missing blanket. "A couple and their little girl. At least I assumed they were married, I couldn’t really ask since we didn’t speak.”

Or rather, they hadn’t spoken…

“Did you see a blanket when you came in?” I asked.

“Blanket?” Brad said, as if I’d asked him if he’d seen the pope. “This place is nuked, don’t think a blanket would have survived.

It was then that I noticed the bed. The mattress was seriously burned. How had I thought that was comfortable? The walls, they were burned too. The carpet. There was a hole in the roof, letting in sand blown on the wind.

“Move,” I said, hurrying past Brad into the hall.

More fire damage. More structural damage. The roof was missing in the living room. The sofa I had napped on was burned to a husk; the metal springs visible through the charred remains. The kitchen was a shambles; the ceiling and a wall were missing, the stove buried by rubble.

And everywhere was the damn sand. Piles of it. Coating every surface.

“When did this happen? Did they get to safety?” I asked.

Brad sauntered in, frowning at me. “Turner, this happened months ago. A drone strike, dodgy intel. The family were killed.”

"No they…we had dinner right here,” I placed a hand on the table, the pale blue paint peeling. My hand left a print in the sandy dust. “I read to the little girl on the sofa.”

The book was just visible, badly burned. All that I could see on the cover was a stripy blue and green cat tail.

Brad exhaled long and hard, then slapped a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t know what to say, Turner. Think you must have been dreaming. You’re probably pretty dehydrated. Don’t worry, we have a truck out front, plenty of fresh water. We can get you back to base, get you checked over.”

I shrugged off his hand and bent to touch the book. The corner disintegrated in my fingers.

When I looked up I could see the girl tucked sleepily on the sofa. When I looked at the stove I could smell the scent of the stew.

“Come on, Turner, nothing to see here. Just shadows.”

“Just shadows…” I repeated numbly. Had it really been a dream? A combination of the heat and dehydration that had conjured the whole thing?

But they had felt so real…