Hard Beginnings
The coarse sand swarmed around his legs as he trekked forward in the unforgiving heat, the golden dust of the sun desperately pulling his feet into the ground. Endless dunes swam onward onto the pale, grey, hazy, horizon, which danced hypnotically in front of his eyes, trying to seduce him away from his path with the empty promise of water. But he trudged on. The sun, the ever blazing, the ever cruel, stood in the blank depths of the sky, like a flat white plate under a great bowl of nothing. She beat on his worn, red, robes that wrapped his shoulders, which were beginning to feel ludicrously burdensome, and struck his face, now the only face he had ever known in this damned desert, with painful blows. There was no fresh breeze to cool his brow in this sea of sand, no rain to bless the lifeless landscape. The wind, the fickle Djann, could only blow grit onto his face and water could merely be found in the dead earth's undying dreams. It really seemed that he was on an endless march in the blurred fragments of a desert's delusion, sleepwalking in a repeating memory of time's slow flow. He was weary and longed to rest, but he pushed himself forward. He could not go like this for long, he knew, but he had to keep going for as long as he could to get closer to his destination. "Ever closer," he reminded himself in his thoughts, even though his mind was bleary from the baking heat and clinging sand, "Ever closer." More sand got into his eyes, more forcefully than the last. The dunes that sluggishly passed him on his trudge timidly shifted, dust gently swirling away from their bald heads. Slightly looking up, he sensed a stronger staleness in the air. He could feel it in his inner essence; his feet could feel its vibrations and he could hear its soft moans that would only become louder as time went by. He stopped for a moment. Taking the bottom of his hood, which was in actuality a large tapering square cloth which swathed around his head loosely, he wrapped the thinner part of the fabric tightly around the lower part of his face and fastened it firmly in its folds. When he was certain that the scarf was secure, he bowed his head, pulled his hood further downward, and moved on, trying to muster a faster pace from his aching body. There was a sandstorm coming, and he had no choice but to try to find some form of shelter, even though the notion seemed hopeless.
The sun, tiring of the robed figure's resistance, began her slow descent from the sky on giant, pastel steps of light yellow, orange, and faint rosey hues. It was a beautiful sight to behold, as the sun drowsily ducked its head under the thin, silky, warm-colored, edge of the folds of the quiet bringer of the night, Lailitov, whose garment would soon fully envelop the azure and show its deeper, dark, velvet cloak. But the traveler could unfortunately pay no heed to its splendor, for he knew that the end of the day this time was the sign for the behemoth of the desert to awaken and satisfy its ceaseless hunger. It would open its caving maw and swallow anything or anyone in its path, such as exhausted travelers who were unafraid to stand in its way. Or foolish enough. The figure hoped that did not describe himself as he fought against the rising winds. He had to find someplace or at least something to hide himself against the great beast of Hyremon, so he would not be swallowed up and caught in its suffocating embrace. The wind was now gaining speed, loudly whispering to him that it could thrash him about if it so pleased, and was throwing clods of sand into his face with raspy, high-pitched, squeals of laughter. Squinting, he desperately looked about the blurry expanse, which was turning into shadow as the night began. He had to find shelter. He had to get to his destination. He had to survive,just like his father and forefathers did before him in the cruel desert wasteland. The wind shrieked past him in a forceful gale. Stumbling forward, he was aided in his fall by exhaustion and a sudden sharp remembrance of hunger. The ground met his front and he splayed on the violently rolling sand, his arms outstretched like a child hugging its mother. Father. How he longed for his father's guidance now. He wanted to see his wise and strong face again. But he was gone now, swept away from him by the sands of time, and now he would too. He had failed when he had hardly begun and he would be given a free burial by the claws of the desert. The wind was now racing everywhere and he could feel the great billow of sand, which was slowly catching up behind him before, trample over him. Everything-the sky, the dunes, wind, earth-and himself belonged to the beast now. As his consciousness drifted away, he remembered the promise he made to his father. Perhaps, when his spirit flew to join the celestial high place of the Ancestors, he would see his father there. That was a small comfort as he was swallowed. That was all the comfort that he had.
They had always trekked the desert, ever since he had remembered. The hot sun, wind, and sand were as an important part of his life as his family. He had many brothers and sisters, and once had a mother, but now they only had a father. She had flown away to the Ancestors when he was too young to remember, and his father greatly grieved this, even after the days of her flight. He never showed it, no, he was an unselfish man, and kept a strong appearance to support his children and give them strength. And they, in turn, made him strong. They were nomads, ever moving to follow their source of energy, the stars, which moved across the sky in varied movements. This meant they could never stay in one place for long. But it was nothing sentimental, for the desert looked the same and there was nothing there to cling to except each other, so it was not a cruel experience. It was all they knew and were born to, so they saw nothing else to compare their lives to. But they knew that their lives were different, perhaps even homelier, contrasted to how their predecessors lived before them, for their father passed down many tales of the great civilization of the Ancestors that mysteriously disappeared. He would tell these stories to them sometimes after they preformed the Ceremony.
In the cool desert nights, when the stars, the Fragments of Life, shined brightly in the folds of Lailitov, he and his older brothers and sisters, 12 of them together, in their traditional red cloaks wrapped around their bodies to keep themselves warm, would sit with their legs under themselves in a circle on the soft, silver, sand together with their father. Clad in grey-black robes, their father, Abrihim, would sit at the head of the circle and hum a deep, low, note in his throat that seemed to pulsate in the air around him. This would start the Ceremony-the Nourishing. He then would make slight soft crescendo in his hum, and then all put their hands in position, their arms low and their hands cradled near their laps in a disciplined position, and would hum softly themselves. The song allowed them to hum to a tune in which their spirits moved them, and each brother and sister had their own song. But instead of causing discord, their voices created a gentle beautiful harmony. Therefore, the song was not the same every time. It was not a loud song, but a meditative one which helped them center themselves, calm their spirit, and clear their minds. The song would end with a decrescendo, disappearing into the night, almost like the breeze when it passed away. There was a long moment of silence as they breathed in the Breath, the Yeheth, the life force. Then, one by one, they would awake, like from a dream, their hunger satisfied. They then would bow their heads low and hold their hands together respectfully, thanking the Ancestors for their help and gift, all harmoniously singing one, long, note of gratitude. They were Masked People, and they gained sustenance from the Fragments of Life, the fragments of the life force. The song was serene and thoughtful and was one of his most favorite songs that were passed down from the Ancestors. Yes, it did satisfy his hunger, and anyone would enjoy this, but what he loved was such the wonderful serenity that came because of it. He could feel the breath of Yeheth deep inside and all his worries would shrink and disappear. He could center his soul and focus, and he felt truly complete. But once the Ceremony ended, the feeling would be faint and then fade away, and his mind was once again full of the worries and thoughts he had as a nomad who ever bore his house on his back and walked the sandy plain. Being the youngest did not mean he had less responsibility to carry. He made sure they packed their worn, cloth, tents, which were covered with traditional triangle and glyph designs, were packed securely and their meager possessions were not left behind. He made sure that everything was in order and everyone was together, and his siblings did the same. They all worked together and were a happy family, despite having no mother. And their father was proud of them. He worked the hardest, spurring his children onward and manning everything. He had the most responsibility, the honorable Abrihim, but he bore it proudly, and that pride shown in his dark eyes.
His eyes were like looking into two dark depths of mystery, but in those depths emerged such kindness and strength. He remembered looking into those eyes adoringly many a time in his youth, asking him many questions of life and history. "My son, my son," he would chuckle in his deep, wizened, voice at his son's fresh eagerness, "Your many questions hold many answers. But I have answers to give…"
"….enyahim! Benyahim!"
The words echoed airily to him like a dream.
"Benyahim!"
He stirred at the sound of his name.
"Benyahim, my son, why do you sleep? Get up!"
He was in a heavy doze, vaguely addressing the voice. He was so tired…It felt so warm and soft…He just…had to…sleep…
"Get up!"
Like white water, consciousness slowly trickled into the murky shadows of his mind.
"Oh, my son. I have not known you to give up so easily. Now, this time, get up!"
Drowsily, he regained his senses. He would get up to help his father with the tents, just after a couple more minutes-
There was a mild jar, and he felt himself enveloped totally in sand.
He couldn't breathe.
Jolting forward, he feverishly got his knees and squirmed upward out of the gritty blackness that had piled upon him. He emerged from the sand's hold, and he gasped for breath. He sat there, on his knees and half submerged in sand, gasping and breathing heavily like one almost drowned. And he would've been drowned, had he not woken up before the desert covered him wholly. The sun had never felt so welcome to his face! And the wind, he didn't care how rough or hot it was, was a welcome feeling compared to almost falling into void of the mouth of the Hyremon, where no one ever wakes. But then the moment was spoiled by a pain that coursed through his body. He was very hungry. Getting up on one knee slowly, for he still felt somnolent from the lack of air he had experienced before, he made himself stand and somewhat hazily checked his belt. He had only taken things that he needed to survive on his journey in the desert wilderness; a knife, a small mirror, durable, tough and coarse-cloth pouches of tools and other knick-knacks, and in the last pouch was a carefully folded scarf, which bore the designs of the ancestors. His father had given it to him, before he had flown away to meet his wife in the sky. His hand rested on that pouch thoughtfully for a moment. Unfastening the poach, he pulled the crimson scarf from the bag, and gently held it in his hands, observing its ancient script and golden designs. It wasn't very long for a scarf, but it was a pretty trinket, and he was certain it held a great meaning. Yet so far it had proven no use on his trek. But his father bestowed it to him as a last gift, so it must be of some importance to his journey. It glistened in the sun, and it reminded him of the winged creatures that his father used to describe to him in his many tales. "They flew on wings that were redder than the robes that we wear," his father had described to him, "with golden beaks they joyfully sung songs to the sky that would calm the fiercest soul. Like my Liiah." His father often compared his wife to a graceful bird. He said she had the most beautiful voice that he had ever heard, a gift from the ancestors…
He suddenly remembered the voice he heard when he was covered by sand. It was unmistakable. The deep voice had been his father's, telling him to get up so he wouldn't by caught in the jaws of Hyremon. He lightly touched the smooth fabric of the strip of cloth, thinking. Perhaps the Ancestors aided him in reaching down to his son to save him. Or maybe he himself flew down from the sky to wake him. Either way, he now knew his father was watching him with his deep eyes, making sure he would achieve his quest. He carefully folded the scarf and put it back into its pouch. He looked up at the sky, using his hand to shield his eyes. It was late morning, for the sun had not yet reached its zenith and there were still traces of pink from the sunrise. Stretching, he then once again began his trek over the newly formed dunes, never varying his direction, and tried to endure the sharp pangs of hunger. He would gain some variable distance before he stopped to try to nourish himself. He had to push himself, and he knew he would have to do this repeatedly throughout his journey to survive. For he had to survive.