Saharan Gold

By Fiona H Evans

The wind whips sand into the old man’s face, squeezing past slitted lids to deposit grit in the corners of his eyes. He reaches for the bladder at his belt, hefts its weight and judges it is enough to last until nightfall. After taking a deep sip, he wipes a hand a across his lips to catch the last drop before it evaporates in the heat. The sun burns so he replaces the bladder quickly and tugs down the sleeves of his tunic to cover the age spots already seared into his hands. He falls to one knee to stare into the distance.

He sees sand, only sand, in all directions. It is burnished gold by the fiery orb of the sun, useless gold worth nothing when a man faces death from thirst. The camel nudges his shoulder, its breath stinking and hot on his neck.

The old man squints into the iridescent blue sky. He still has the beast. If all else fails, its blood will sustain him.

It is not the season for making journeys, yet he has walked for three weeks. The last of his tribe live by the old ways far from the cities and far from the beach where he fishes the red sea. He’d not thought he’d ever return, but then he’d heard the news. He sold his boat, bought the camel and began to walk.

Now he allows it to push him to his feet. The beast is no dumb animal. It knows they must move.

The old man’s steps grow heavy but he continues to walk. When the sun slips below the dunes on the horizon, the day loses its heat. Huffing with relief, he pushes on as the stars emerge to dance in the night sky.

At first the twinkle of lights in the distance seems an illusion. It cannot be real. He must be dreaming, asleep on his feet. The camel bellows, a low harsh sound. The old man makes out the shape of a palm tree, then the peak of a tent. Despite his fatigue, he tries to run and stumbles forward. Reins dropped, the camel breaks free and races ahead.

He does not recognise the faces of the men who come to greet him.

“Amal?” he gasps.

“She lives.”

The old man feels his knees give out beneath him. He has enough time to praise God before the world goes dark.

When he wakes, he feels the soft touch of a hand on his cheek. The air is scented with rose water and pomegranate. He opens his eyes to candlelight as soft as the memories swirling through his brain. Memories of times when he took his youth for granted, but never her.

“Mehedi, you have returned.” Her voice is the tinkling of bells.

His heart is clamouring like a drum. “I heard news of the accident,” he says. I had to see you again.”

Her dark eyes must see his soul so deep is her gaze.

“I live.” She looks away. “But my husband is dead.”

He stares silently until she turns back to him, remembering the years they’d played together as children, remembering the plans he’d made when he became a man. Plans that changed —hopes that were dashed — when her father said, “No.”

Her parents did not think him good enough for her. But they are dead. Her husband is dead. They are all dead now. And he will be dead soon too.

“I never stopped loving you, Amal.” He fingers the gold ring on its leather strap around his neck. Perhaps gold is not useless after all. His breath is a wish.

“Will you be my wife?”

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Fiona H Evans is a recently retired mathematician and emerging writer.  She lives on Noongar Boodja in Western Australia, with her beloved aging dog, in a cottage near a river where black swans swim. You can read more of her writing at fionahevans.com.