Desertium

Ryan Lenney

I: Cortus

In this sand, a black beetle seldom survives, but a gleaming back rendered matte black in darkness increases the chances. Wind need only release a small breath to tickle the sand and the creature would find itself buried. Conveniently, for those specks of life, there is no wind - nor sandstorms. Either they survive, or everything dies with them. Peeking its head from underneath the cloth in which it made a home, it begins shuffling and scurrying alongside the slab, looking for some form of substance. The beetle is tossing the smaller sand behind, propelling itself forwards.

Dust falls, and our attention is drawn to the lurching spider trying to hide beyond a stalagmite. The beetle breaks into a frantic scurry and marks a path through the floor, carving a tunnel of fear and surfacing next to a bulky rock. It ascends the walls and doesn’t look down to examine the chaos caused through irrational fear. For the time being, the spider waits – motionless - unaware of the tiny speck that is scampering from fear. On top of the slab, the beetle finds a crack in the rock, and nestles inside. More dust falls and settles on the ground as the spider repositions and the beetle remains calm, far enough away to not notice the dust settling behind.

Underneath, a row of sand seems to shuffle and slide. Long lines of yellow, and the occasional chevron-shaped chunk of brown, move as a unit along the ground. The sand coils to the chime of ancient flutes. A column of snake silently embraces the rock that lays dormant in the centre. Shaking off any sand it collects, the snake now slithers undisguised, progressing upward. Its reflective scales are pointless in the black abyss. The snake folds over the top and manages to curl next to a black spot slightly protruding from the slab. Specks of dust crumble from the rotting roof and settles close to the snake - it is unphased.

A sea of red begins to flow inside like blood, staining the sand like wine seeping through bread. A red halo surrounds the rectangular slab in the centre. In a quick motion, the snake pounces onto the black spot and suffocates the beetle below. Its last breath is unheard, even to the snake. The snake swallows and begins to descend, following a small corridor along the sand, filling the line and blending back into the darkness.

Screeches and scratches sear through the cavern, like the screams of Angels; the sound eradicates silence and opens a rusted gate of noise. The stone slab that topped the structure in the centre, slams into the floor and skewers a snake in half. Its blood splats and taints the sand. 40

From inside the tomb, some small black spiders flutter out and crawl down the angled slab in a symmetrical line. They sludge through the blood of an impaled snake and ascend the walls to reunite with a much larger spider behind a stalagmite.

A hand appears; the long bony fingers curl around the edge of the rock, then a second grey hand. His skin is so cold that the blood red-sunlight filling the space is enough to burn his supposedly tanned skin. His knuckles are covered in cuts where only the dust clogging the wounds are preventing his own blood from gushing out and merging with the snake’s. His skin is cracked like the dry desert. Sand-filled nails claw the stone as the man attempts to move. The nail of his forefinger snaps under the pressure of movement and clips off, his flesh exposed to raw air. A small creature pounces at the nail from beneath him but quickly retreats away after deciding the nail is closer to poison than food. His thin arms quake as his body is fuelled by a tsunami of blood and colour returns to his previously grey skin. His beating heart clouds the aura of the death, and life disperses into the darkness to hide. With trembling wrists, the man manages to hold himself up and peer over the edge of the stone. Rough edges serrate his chest, but he welcomes the feel of warm air that drifts in from the halo of light outside.

His straggly black curly hair, that entwines with a similar beard, hangs low and gently strokes the sand below as he heaves and regains his breath. Morning’s red light turns yellow in the day. His breathing calms and he sits up on his knees. From his kneeled position, only the top half of his torso is visible in the circular golden light behind him. He squints at the glow and allows his eyes to adjust. He looks around at the room, observing the stalagmites and stalactites, the snakes’ trails and rats’ tails with beetles’ shells and nature’s hells all trapped under one roof. He wonders how he came to be here. Rising to a stand, his biceps shake as he attempts to regain enough strength to flop over the stone and stand on the ground. He moves his feet, preparing his body to take his full weight - he lifts one leg, his foot catches the side of the stone and he plants his face deep into the ground; his nose snorts the sand. Small droplets of blood trickle from his left nostril and stain a small patch, but the blood goes no further. The dusty man lays naked, face down, his nose bleeding and his skin dirty.

Fearing similar failure, he rolls over onto his back, struggling like a beetle on its back, and brings his torso to a rise; his abdominal region forces his stomach to gag. There he sits for some time, allowing the blood to rush from his head and fuel all his muscles. He sits and inspects his body. He checks his hands and holds them up to his face; apart from the dirt and cut knuckles, they appear fine. His chest is scratched but otherwise, similar results - his groin, exposed but intact; his legs, seem thinner than he last remembered. Finally his feet-his left foot has a fresh wound from where he caught the rock but other than that, his body seems near enough how he left it. Just not where he left it.

Now that he has some time to regain his breath and analyse himself, he collects the courage to stand; doing so successfully. He notices loose cloth that is curled up near the circular glow.

“Even, the clothes, off my back,” he croaks, noticing his raw and, dusty voice. He coughs, clearing his immediate airway from sand and feels the flow of air finally entering his lungs for the first time in a couple of days. The volume of air rushes to his head and he quickly reaches for the wall, pressing his hand into the rock to stabilise himself. While leaning, he bends over to gather the cloth. Shifting his weight, he leans his back on the wall and ties the cloth around his waist to form a loin-cloth and cover his bottom half. Once dressed, he stands in the yellow halo and pushes on the stone, for nothing to happen. He had expected the stone to move or open as a door would. Taking a deep breath, he digs his heels into the sand and pushes with all his body weight, as little as there is, at the stone. His palms turn red and begin to pierce against the rough rock when, with a loud crack and a sudden explosion of light, the stone falls and the boulder rolls down a large mountain.

II: Conmemoro

The subtle breath of an old man drifts through the tent awning. From the outside, the tent resembles nothing extraordinary. The remnants of a small fire dwindle outside, and the sinfully comforting smell of embers still lingers at the opening to the tent. Abandoned but ordinary. Inside, the croaks of an old man can be quietly heard as he sleeps on the floor, his lungs acting more like satchels than pumps. Whatever air that is managing to sneak into his chest, most likely will stay there and never make it around his body. He knows that he is in his last minutes. He craves the morning, one last time. The old man gathers all his strength to crawl forwards and peer through the tent. As his hand sweeps away the soft material, light fills his face and the warmth of the sun brings a small flush of colour in his cheek. He sees a large rock roll away from him in the distance. He lies down, his face burning on the fresh morning sand, and he awaits his judgement.

A lone bird, assessing the sand below him, takes flight from the ground. Its light wings gently stroke the air as it gains height. From the ground, every speck of sand can be seen, can be felt, can be appreciated but as the bird flies higher the sand merges into one consistent slate of yellow. A large mass where one speck is impossible to determine. Brown feathers drape themselves to create a bird’s wing, which wistfully waltzes in the wind. The floor seems a world away to the bird now, but in its sights, is a large hill. One which could be called a mountain should one desire to not climb it. Close to the top, a man stands at the mouth of a cave.

The man stands, blinded by the sun that is greeting his skin like an old friend. He looks down and sees the boulder continuing to roll away and he remembers the tent at the bottom of the hill. The man looks out across the landscape, a hand covering his brow to minimalize the light blinding him. He looks out to the yellow dunes and sandy hills and admires the light that they reflect.

Stepping out onto the hot granules, it takes his feet a moment to adjust to the familiar burn and then he begins his descent down the hill.

An eagle rests on a boulder. He notices the limestone and how the deep red of the sun turns to green in the shade. He notices a beetle scurry back to a crack under the boulder. The eagle twitches his neck as it surveys the area for his next meal. A leopard leaps in the haze at a distance. The eagle takes flight and follows the leopard, knowing it will kill something soon and the eagle can feast on the leopard’s efforts. The man, now an inhabitant of the desert, watches the eagle fly away, then casts his eyes down from the sun. He looks at the cracks in the ground, at the earth splitting beneath him. A dead shrub’s branches reach out of the ground and scratch at his leg; the hairs on his skin flinch at nature’s touch. He twitches at the increasingly unfamiliar curse of nature’s affectionate touch. His feet burn on the sand, on tiny yellow coals. He looks to the horizon and the silhouettes that stand against the sun, their black shapes blockading the light.

He walks down the hill and his eyes recognise a familiar structure, a tent. He sees a grey head protruding from the awning and it becomes clear what he has missed. Unable to just walk away, the man approaches the tent. He caresses the man’s face and it becomes clear he is still alive, just.

“I am not late, yet,” the man whispers, closing his eyes and placing his palm on the old man’s forehead. The man focuses his little strength and exhales. A small wind blows past the tent and briefly the desert chills. Clouds cover the sun and a few night creatures venture into the day confused at the darkness. A solitary bird floats over the men and in its tail the light fades back and the creatures retreat. The heat of desert life fills the landscape like blood returning to the body, the wind ceases to blow and the air becomes dry and still.

The old man takes a deep breath and the air rejuvenates his body. He sits and like a young child the old man grins at the colour of his tent. With a bowed head, the desert man rises and turns to leave.

Walking away from the tent and across the dunes he notices the hills. He notices the waves of land that tide against the horizon. He notices the occasional Nubian ibex that stands on the mountains. He notices them watching over his walk, their curled horns branding twirls into his eyes in front of the red sun like a devil’s hypnosis.

He hears the sand whisper as the sun begins to set; it hisses his name and screams from burning pain. He sees the animals retire to shelter before the demons of the night prowl. He wonders if he will reach shelter before his skin turns to leather in the heat.

III: Abscondeo

A calm wind blows over the sand and the moon becomes an innocent child nestling into the sand dunes like their mother’s lap. Life is still breathing inside the shelter, the only visible life breathing this cold desert air.

One candle is promised a stool at the main table. It is lit by a maiden. She finds the flint and sparks a splinter, using the tools to ignite fire. With the wax alight, the heat begins to thaw the air around the young girl. She rubs her hands together for warmth, opening them to the flame and welcoming the heat. “While the sun may burn the day, the night freezes,” she recites.

She looks at the candle and watches the fire move with her breath. Fascinated by the power, she conducts the burning, with heaven watching her. She summons the flames from below and calls upon their dance. In this moment, she has sole control. She considers how easy it is to build the fire, and how it is even easier to remove it. The life of that splint is literally in her hands. A frightened sigh by the prospect; flames fly and flicker under her breath. She stubs out the splinter before she can allow herself to start an inferno.

But she cannot resist holding the burnt wood against her lips - the hot char stains her mouth. She feels the burnt embers seeping into her mouth and penetrating her skin. Red lips that burn with fire. The black char smudges the youthful rouge from her face and taints her beauty with dark flakes. She wants to lick her finger and smudge the ash around her face, blackening every resemblance of her mother. The door swings open and another maiden disrupts the atmosphere. She brushes her lips, removing the marks, lifts the light in one hand and collects a tankard of ale in the other. Spinning on her bare feet, she feels the unwelcome touch of cold stone and pushes through the door. A crusade of sound suddenly charges toward her and through the noise she hears herself being summoned across the room.

“Yes, my lovely lady, bring me another beverage!” calls out the largest man at the inn, who is sitting in the middle of a long wooden table. His harsh eyes pierce her skin and his mouth, that could swallow sandstorms, is deafening. It opens wide and he thrusts his teeth into an apple, piercing the skin and shooting spits of juice on his neighbours. One bite in, he throws the remainder across the room and marvels as it splats against the wall, the juice dripping down. Several other men are positioned along the benches next to and opposite him, but he stands out amongst the much skinnier men. His long, black hair curls away from him as though it is disgusted to be touching his shoulders. And the beard is forced to bow below his hair. 44

Weaving through a few tables she manages to get behind the man. His body odour stings her nose like snake’s venom and she can feel his scratchy hair brush her cheek even though she hasn’t touched it yet. She leans over his shoulder and places the candle at the table just short of his beard. Part of her hopes it will catch fire and burn the man, but he pushes it away before igniting his straw-like rags.

“Careful there gorgeous; could have burnt me.” He spits slyly, as if the heat of the flame is burning inside him when she arrives.

“Your ale, my lord.” She speaks submissively as she places down the tankard. Her eyes draw circles on the floor, trying to move but stuck going nowhere. Tucking her hands into her robe, she begins to walk back into the storeroom when a hand grips her waist and she finds herself being pulled back and spun onto the large man’s lap. A rapturous cheer comes from the table and the man erupts into a laugh that gropes the woman’s ears. She forces herself to smile, and she respectfully nods to the table to acknowledge their drunken stupor.

The large man’s hand becomes a snake slithering around her waist and rests on the inside of her thigh, its grip becoming tighter as she moves. The snake is preparing to swallow its prey. She looks at him in disgust, but his eyes are so cold she freezes on the spot. The laughter from the table continues. A small tear forms in her eye. He jolts with excitement and throws her off balance. She slams her hand down on the table to stop her falling face first into the flame of the candle.

“Careful there darling, getting too hot for you?” he spits as he pushes the back of her head closer to the flame. Her tear falls into the fire and disappears instantly. The heat burns her sadness and ignites her fear. The snake encapsulates her; his fingers flick around her legs and the rest pushing down her head. His eyes have frozen her mouth shut; her tongue is a block of ice weighing her face closer to the flame, yet it doesn’t melt. She finds it impossible to speak, whether to complain or to join in the jokes that the men seem to be sharing.

One man at the bottom end of the table catches her eye; he isn’t laughing. She looks at him with eyes that say, ‘Help me’, but he turns away and drinks his ale. There is nothing he can do.

Outside, the snakes begin to bury into the sand and the beetles scurry out of their holes. Overnight the power switches, predators hide in the dark as they become prey and the prey regroup for the night hunt. The beetles mourn the loss of a comrade and prepare for vengeance. They scurry along the sand, free to run in the open darkness. On the ground, they find the predator severed in half and one by one the beetles devour the snake.

Leaving only the bones, the beetles claim victory over a slab of stone and create a new home beneath.

IV: Adunatio

The desert man, wearing only his loin cloth, strides in and stands at the door to the inn. The laughter stops. The talking stops. He seems oblivious to the audience.

His face is coated in sandy dust that the wind has thrown on him; his hair hangs like rope, unwashed and smuggling several dead insects and half a desert. His eyes seemed white on first glance but then drips of clear water fill the vacant space and gleam in the candlelight. His mouth is cracked, like a rock outside; grey and cracked from the weather.

The large man pushes the waitress off his lap and the snake retreats without devouring its prey. She falls and slams into the stone face first.

“Oi, Carpenter? What are you doing here!” The large man shouts over silence.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” croaks the desert man.

The waitress on the floor collects herself and manages to scurry away from the brute who is now pre-occupied. She has escaped the snake and now, like a beetle, seeks cover. As she crawls away from the table towards the serving bar she looks at the stranger. He kneels to face her. Still on her hands and knees, she looks up toward him. His hand cups her chin and he helps her stand. Their eyes meet as if for the first time; the rest of the room becomes dust in a sand timer. “Mary…” His voice trails off as his body welcomes hers in an embrace. A moment of weakness and their lips interlock. Entwined as one they savour every small second together. It is over, they are in public. Suddenly they are drowning in the timer and the sand is around their necks.

Whispers start to flutter around the room and the couple come back to reality. His eyes gaze into hers and he can see her fear, but she doesn’t let it consume her. She smiles at the sight of him. She gently touches her stomach and he smiles. His smile slithers off his face as he considers his path ahead. He glances once more at the woman before him.

Two men, dressed in red silk, who have been quietly sitting in the corner, rise and, if their swords are not evidence enough, the royal marks of Tiberius alert the inn.

“In the name of Tiberius,” speaks a guard.

Slowly, everyone sinks to their knees. The large man and his table come off their stools, tuck them under the table and bow on the floor. All the maidens prostrate themselves and, in mere seconds, everyone is face down.

Apart from the desert man - Jesus.

For the second time in a few minutes, silence haunts everyone. A gentle hum of breathing can be heard as the two guards remain standing and glare at his defiance.

He is left alone, in the centre of the room, protected only by his loin-cloth as the guards move towards him, their gaze examining him.

The beetles, in their new home, make themselves comfortable. Burrowing into the sand below and broadening the cracks in the stone to create corridors and extend their new palace. From the corner, a large spider notices the growing population of the beetles and comes down from its observatory corner to inspect the new palace. Slowly moving its legs across the stone, the spider watches the beetles scurry under the rock, apart from one. A single beetle moves from behind the stone and comes to face the spider. While not naturally a spider’s prey, the beetle moves closer. The spider lunges and grabs it, encasing it with its many legs and drags the beetle away. Wrapped up in web, the beetle hangs from a stalagmite and begins to slowly suffocate.

“I have returned. Your blades do not concern me. Use your blade to sever corn and dress the ground in kernels. They are only singular seeds. But, when the seeds die, they produce many seeds. I, like wheat, grew and now I share my bread,” voices the man; this time his voice has become stronger. While his appearance is still dusty and haggard from the brute-like desert, his voice and beaten, harsh exterior are now proving to be superior.

“In the name of Tiberius,” the second guard reiterates, this time with a strong sense of anger and growing agitation. A small cough comes from Mary, who is bowed at the man’s feet. Her cough seems to say Don’t try it or Please don’t do this. But the man pays no attention.

“In the name…” The guards voice is interrupted.

“He will not fight you,” calls out the quiet man from the table. While still on the floor, Mary’s eyes crawl up to meet his. Their eyes greet each other, and the man stands, holding out his hands as if there were shackles binding him. “You may take me with you. I shall be honoured to tell the news to your leader myself.”

“No, I will,” calls another who also rises and extends his arms.

“Take me instead,” joins another from the crowd.

Moments later, all those who were bowed have risen and extended their arms in sacrifice, apart from the large man.

As the wind blows through the door, the guards grab the man by his arms and drag him out by his heels. Sand batters his feet as the guards rush him onto a cart outside.

Everyone turns to look at the woman moving towards the door, her eyes stuck in a gaze still watching the man who is dragged away.

The shy man from the table moves over to the woman and places his hand on her shoulder.

“I will come with you,” he says. He doesn’t tell her where, nor did she say she was leaving. But together, they know they must follow him. “My name is Peter, I will come with you to bring him home.”

Mary’s shoulders loosen, “A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death better than the day of birth. We can bring him home or we’ll build him an empire”.