Zamoru

 

The old man pointed to the door.

     “There it is,” he said. “Go.”

     Beyond the door was the desert. The young man looked. He tried looking past the desert, to where he was going.

     “You’re looking for the road?” The old man laughed. “The road is gone. Long gone. Only desert now.”

     It was true. The old road running to the next village was gone. There was rock, and the stumps of a few dead trees, and there was sand. But no road.

     When the wind blew, the cabin shook. When the cabin shook, sand fell from the rafters. The old man poured the young man more wine. When the young man didn’t take it, the old man drank it.

     “You’re just like the others, my friend. Drink. You’ll wish you had, later on. When the sand is in your throat; when you’re lapping water so thick with salt it’s on the surface like a skin; when you’re licking the sweat from the palms of your hands and all you taste is salt and sand. Then you’ll bite your wrist and when the thick red liquid runs you’ll pretend it’s wine. But it’ll taste like salt and sand. 

     “Yes, I know it tastes like piss. But you don’t know what piss tastes like yet, my friend.”

     The wind shook the shack again. A few grains of sand fell into the old man’s wine. With a grunt, he knocked it back. The young man looked down his nose at the old man.

     “Yes, yes, I’m sure it makes you sick. But that’s what it does to you, the Idumea. It’s everywhere in me. Feel my skin. It’s like the rocks out there. You wake up rubbing sand out your eyes. You wake up choking on it. It’s everywhere. It's in me now. How long you been here? Two days? It’s in you too by now.”

     The Idumea just south of the Rocklands is overrun with that black volcanic rock from the north. They say it must have fallen from heaven when the sun was born. It scorched the land, made it what it is. The towns along the Len used to make beautiful, glistening statuettes out of the rock. But not here. Not in Zamoru. Here they cursed it, because the heartless sun shines off it and hurts their eyes. On some bright mornings frost lies on the rocks so that they shimmer. But this beautiful sight lasts only a minute, before the sun burns away the water and leaves them like hot burning coals.

     The old man looks like those rocks, thought the young man. He’s been hiding here so long he’s become another one of those rocks.

     And the old man did look like a rock. There was no flesh on him; his face was just a thin pointed nose and sharp cheekbones. A beard like dry and lifeless desert grass hung all the way to his waist. His skin was blackened, wizened and broken by the sun, just like the rocks. He was covered in sores where the sun had split his skin, and they looked like scales. His lips were cracked, and when he ran his tongue over them, his tongue was dry and yellow.

     “You want to know who I am, don’t you, friend?”

     The young man started pacing up and down at the cabin door again. Two days ago the young man’s guide went off to find the well. For two days the young man has waited here, listening to the old man talk.

     “You know, he’s not coming back for you,” said the old man. “He’s not. No one is.”

     The young man knew that, but it didn’t stop him staring out of the door. He was looking at the wind. He looked at the way the wind sent up sand and twisted it, rolled it, and threw it. It lifted up the sand and dropped it on the black-stone cabins. On every roof was a pile of it. Every now and then the wind would throw some sand in through the open door. It carpeted the cabin floor. It was all around the old man in his chair. It was piled at the old man’s feet.

     The young man listened to the wind, and whenever it blew, his lips twisted in frustration. Southward on the road it had sounded like a breath blown through thin reeds. Now it sounded like someone shaking a fist full of rocks. It grated. He hated it.

     The wind let nothing live, but it left the corpses in a petrified state to hint of a time before sand. There, an Anabasis shrub outside the door, its pink flowers bleached white, a thin sheet of sand upon it. And a little way off a couple of long dead Acacia trees bare and brittle. There was sand piled up around them, too.

     “You’ll see the daemons out tonight, I reckon,” said the old man. “Old dead things.”

     The young man shook his head and didn’t look at the old man. The old man slurped his wine and the young man’s lips twitched.

     “When the wind’s up, they come,” the old man continued. “And the wind’s always up. Look out for them behind the rocks. Listen out for the way they sing to you.” The old man laughed. “You look at me like that all you want, my friend, I don’t mind it. Now have some wine.”

     The old man poured another cup for himself. The young man stepped outside for a better view. The wind struck his face and forced him back. The old man laughed into his wine.

     A shadow moved at the young man’s back when the young man moved, cast there by the flickering candle, and the old man watched the shadow and waited. The gnats that fled the wind and sheltered in his cabin flew about the candle flame so thick they shrouded it, and in waves the light came and as swiftly went.

     “Are you looking for a break in the clouds?”

     The young man nodded.

     “Foolish,” continued the old man. “There are no clouds. There are never clouds here. Yes, you’re right, no sun either. It’s the dust that does it. Many, many years I’ve sat at this table. I’ve never seen the sun.” 

     The old man fixed the young man with a look.

     “Why don’t you take a seat?”

     The young man politely declined, though less politely than before, and even less politely than the time before that.

     “He’s not coming back for you, you know, friend. You’ll have to go it alone.”

     The young man looked out of the door again. The abandoned cabin across a stretch of waste ground, visible earlier, was now made invisible by the sandstorm raging.

     “Just sit down for an hour or two,” said the old man.

     The young man ignored him.

     “Have a cup of wine.”

     Nothing from the young man.

     “Lie down for a bit while you wait.”

     Nothing.

     “You can shelter here for the night if you wish. I’ve got blankets. You can kip under the table here.”

     Nothing still.

     “He’s not coming back,” the old man said solemnly. He poured another cup of wine. “That well was filled with sand years ago. He knew that, I’d say. Got your mule, you say? Yes, that doesn’t surprise me, no. They took my mule, too, you know. Oh yes, yes. Are you sure you won’t take a cup? Now, it was many years ago, but I see it now, I see myself stood where you’re stood. I was thinking of Amondean too. Oh don’t look so surprised, friend. They’re all off to Amondean. No, no, don’t you worry, I won’t tell. Who’d you think I’d tell?” The old man slurped his wine. “Yes, yes, I stood where you’re stood. And that old fellow… I forget his name now. I forget. Long time ago it was. He gave me a cup of wine. I took that wine. I took it.”

     The young man tried again standing outside against the blowing sand. When he came back in, the sand followed.

     “Seeing you there’s bringing it all back to me,” said the old man. “I’m an old man now, don’t you know. Old man. It was Zuria who banished me. Swine. I suppose he’s long dead now? Yes, good. Good. Who’s Masiach now? You don’t want to think about it, I understand. It was still a bit fresh for me when I stood there. Yes, yes. Amondean. Amondean… I’d forgotten about Amondean until you came in here.”

    The young man slammed his fist on the door frame and the old man shut up.

     It didn’t last long. After a moment, he started laughing. He was looking at the gnats burning in the candle flame.

     “Come, have a drink.”

     The young man moved away from the door but did not approach the table. He tried to brush the sand from off his white robes but it had sunk deep into the thread. The old man watched him.

     “You’re an Orlainist, then?”

     The young man froze. The old man laughed.

     “I’m not so old as that. I was there, you know, when they came. What was it now, fifteen years ago? Twenty-five! My my. And still the world turns. Come, have a seat. I’d like to hear what’s happened to the old place in twenty-five years.”

     The young man hesitated, glancing once more out of the door. It was impossible to see more than a few feet away. That guide wasn’t coming back.

     “No, he’s not coming back,” confirmed the old man. “Mine didn’t come back.”

     The old man poured himself another cup and poured one for the young man too.

     “It’ll be night time soon,” said the old man.

     The young man nodded.

     “You can set out tomorrow. The sand might have cleared by then.”

     The young man took a sip of wine. His expression seemed to change. The old man gestured to the seat.

     “So, tell me then, what’s Lucretius been up to for the last twenty-five years?”

     The young man took a seat. 

     After an hour or two, he lay his head on his hands and closed his eyes.

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     The young man heard the people coming and raised his head. There must have been thousands.

     The young man did not look so young now. He had a beard down to his breast, all dry and lifeless. His cheekbones were as sharp as the desert rocks. His skin was dark and wizened and worn. His eyes were cloudy and grey. He blinked, trying to blink away the sand. He was always blinking away the sand.

     With slow, heavy movements he pushed away the cup and rose to his feet. He went to the door.

     The sand was not blowing today. He could see down the road, southward. There were people walking. Many people. Thousands of people. They were walking northward, towards Amondean.

     The young man returned to his seat. He slurped some wine. He closed his eyes.