1. The desert (I)

The first thing he felt, as he found himself emerging from a slumber he could not recall having begun, was the cold. He knew at once that it wasn't the kind of fierce cold one might die of; it was instead a steady, thorough chill, one that seemed to be coming as much from inside as out. Shivering lightly, he tried hunching the covers closer around him, then realized that there weren't any. He drew up his knees and bent his head down, and was surprised to find that this caused a burning sensation to be produced along the side of his face. His touched the spot and felt grit between his fingers. He puzzled at this for a moment, eyes closed, even as he became aware that the same substance, whatever it was, was adhering to his lips and had worked its way between his teeth and gums. Trying to recall whether he should know what this substance might be, and whether he ought to be alarmed, he stretched out the fingers of a still numb hand and realized that there was a quantity of whatever it was right alongside him, that in fact he appeared to be actually lying atop a considerable pile of it. He now attempted to open his eyes, but immediately he did so he felt an unexpected sharp pain in both. He rolled onto his stomach and raised himself up on all fours, then sat back, rubbing the sand from his tearing eyes.

It was another minute or two before he was able to stagger to his feet and look around a bit, eyelids half-raised and flickering shut as stray grains continued to drift across his cornea. When at last he was able to fully open his eyes he found that doing did not immediately clarify his situation; the sun must have just risen, as the light was grey and thin, and a lingering mist of windblown dust and sand kept him from seeing more than a few yards in any direction. There were a few bare tufts of grass here and there around him, but nothing more. Still feeling the lingering cold, he sat back down, then shifted on his haunches so that he could reach into his pants pockets. He wasn't sure what he hoped to find in them, but in any case they were empty. The same proved to be the case with the single pocket of his denim shirt and the pockets of his thin tan windbreaker.

Putting his hand to his jaw he saw that it had been several days since he had shaved, the stubble prickly against his fingers. He was starting to feel a bit thirsty, not uncomfortably so but enough to make him concerned about his predicament should there be no source of potable water nearby. He felt no hunger, on the other hand, just the slightest awareness that he hadn't as yet eaten anything that morning.

It took a while for the wind to drop and the sun to burn through the remaining haze of sediment that still swirled in the air. The coolness of the morning dissipated almost at once, and he felt the first stirrings of what would undoubtedly be a torrid midday. When he could finally see he beheld a prospect of undulating terrain in all directions, but with a high, smoothly descending slope at his back. Whichever way he looked there was nothing but sand, weathered and crumbling stones, and sparse grass. Not a single shrub or even a twig lay in sight. He saw a few solitary large red ants climbing laboriously over the sand; they were the only things that moved. The view was not without its harsh beauty — it might even be called sublime — but it was also appalling. Clearly, he realized, he would not be able to survive long in this environment.

“Where the hell am I?” he asked aloud.

To his surprise, he was almost immediately answered. The voice that came was unmistakably feminine, but it was not a woman's voice by any means. It had a throaty, resonant quality like no other voice he had heard. The tone was soft and pure, but not particularly soothing. It said simply:

“You are nowhere.”

He spun around and immediately, instinctively, froze in terror. It was some kind of large cat, roughly his own dimensions but no doubt a bit lighter in weight in view of the length of its slender, athletic legs, a formidable beast in any case, to take on unarmed. It came into his head that it was probably a cheetah, though he had never before seen one in the flesh. The cat was watching him, without apparent eagerness, from a seated position a few yards behind him. He was sure she had not been there just a moment ago, but no doubt the creature was stealthy and quiet afoot. He thought about running, then realized this was idiotic; tried to pick up a stone, but could not scrabble up one small enough to wield. The cat ignored his efforts, stood up, and walked over to him without hurry.

“You are not excessively removed from other places, however, provided you are prepared for a hike. I don't suppose you have brought any water?”

An answer being superfluous, he said nothing; he was, anyway, too stupefied to speak. The cat began to walk away from him, headed down the slope in the direction of a small ravine. When he failed to follow she stopped and looked back.

“Try to keep up with my pace, if you can. I'm willing to make some allowance for you, but there are limits. You may call me Lucinda, by the way; it's as good a name as any other.”

He collected his wits sufficiently to decide that following her, as uncertain a prospect as it seemed, was in all likelihood his only option. Some fleeting memory of social grace suggested to him that he ought to respond in kind to her introduction. He was about to open his mouth and tell her his name, but his mind came up blank. Since she showed no inclination to await a response, and was already padding steadily away from him, he let it go for the moment and stumbled along behind her as best he could.

April 22, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.