Sands

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Again the grinding crunch of sand between the teeth. How long must he endure this suffering. His tongue was so parched that it cleaved to one side of his mouth begging for any hope of relief. But there was none. The tiny grains of dust and rock had found their way into every crack and crevice of his body.

The irritation was beyond belief. It was as though shards of razor sharp glass had been impaled under his skin. It began as a minor rash, but day after day the friction took its toll leaving painful abrasions in sensitive places.

The pain was one thing, the continuing annoyance was entirely different. He had wiped his eyes to clear the blindness of blowing sand so often that blood now mingled with the sand forming a sticking foul mess. His ears were clogged almost beyond repair. He dug to free them of the deafening plug, but they filled again immediately thereafter.

The sand, no doubt, was a nuisance, but the immeasurable heat of the noonday sun was a hundred times more unbearable. The heat literally took the breath from him. It stole away the very will to live from his soul. If only he could find a respite, a refreshing solace of shade. If only his water hadn’t run out two days ago. The well that he’d been directed to find by the locals was filled with dust and sorrow.

Khaga Sands… He’d been told that many had ventured into its rolling dunes seeking riches and glory. He’d also been told that many had perished while doing so and the sand was ripe with the scattered remains of the dead, along with all of their glorious treasures. It was all there, awaiting someone to discover, and simply pick it up.

The locals were the only ones cashing in on the greed of unprepared treasure seekers. Khaga Sands was brutal. It was consuming him, sucking the water of life from his body, returning him to the dust from whence he’d come.

He could see the mountains toward the south. The Whispering Lands they called them. If only he might reach those mountains. Surely he would find water there. Surely there would be rivers flowing with abundance. Waterfalls of cool mountain rain. The fog of cool mountain mist revitalizing the soul. Clear, refreshing, pools. He would drink them in. He would bath in there glorious splendor. If only…

If only he had listened to the wisdom of the old hag who had offered to tell his fortune back in the Broken Maw. She told him to turn back. She had warned him not to venture into the sands of ruin.

Three camels approached from the west after the storm of blowing sand finally subsided. The camels bore riders wrapped in many layers. Their bright red robes and checkered scarves stood out on the horizon of pale brown blowing dust.

“Over here.” one rider called out to his comrades. He leaped from the camel and reaching down to reveal the desiccated remains of a long dead corpse he searched to find anything of value.

“Not much here left to salvage.” he said without any semblance toward the dead body he’d just turned over. “Hardly anything for the beetles to feast upon I’m afraid.”

“Strange.” one of the riders commented. “He is not dressed properly for desert travel at all. He is not even wearing a shemagh keffiyeh scarf.”

“Who would be so foolish to come into this place without preparation?” the other rider added condescendingly.

“I wonder what his story is?” the first rider said turning his camel back toward the oasis in the west from whence they traveled.

"Doesn’t really matter does it. His story is obviously over now.” came the retort of the fellow who had so brazenly checked the body for goods. He climbed back atop his camel and followed his countrymen. Perhaps luck would shine upon them with another corpse to salvage.

“Hopefully the next one we find will not have met such a bitter end.”

“What do you mean?” questioned the lead rider.

“Well, this fellow perished with nothing left to him. He was at his end and it seemed a humiliating end at that.”

“That is where you are wrong.” came the wisdom of the lead rider. “The end is where we will all meet together. Rich and poor, Proud and humble. It makes no difference. The end will capture as all and bring us all into one accord.”

Silent contemplation followed the words of the lead rider.

The sands continued to sweep like waves tossed on the ocean. To some they held a certain beauty all their own. To others they were likened to the grip of death slowly strangling the life from its many unsuspecting victims. To three camel riders the sands were the searching grounds that provided a meager living, ever changing like the tides of the seas, sometimes revealing wondrous treasures in the midst of their terror.

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