rhythmic lamentations of a requiem. His heart sank.
“The desert takes what she wants,” Hairan said.
The two men walked down the dune to survey the damage. Gabriel felt sick. Men pulled out bodies from sandy graves and checked them for signs of life. Those not breathing were laid in a pile to receive a proper burial later. A dozen or so were in the pile already. A young woman fell to her knees and with her hands muffled a heart-wrenching scream.
“Her beloved,” said one of the men, scraping the cocktail of sand and sweat off his face. “Dead.”
When they ripped the veil from the young man’s face, Gabriel realized it was Da’ud. His skin had the sickening gray pallor of departed life. He had suffocated like the others. Gabriel fell to his knees and heaved, nothing issuing from his throat but a thread of slimy saliva. He was utterly spent, physically and emotionally.
Damn you, Hairan. Damn you and your council of fools. None of this had to happen. These people did not have to die. He wanted to bellow his anger at Hairan but thought better of it. He knew a scene like that would only make things worse for these people, who had their own grief to deal with. Instead, he joined the other men in their grim task of searching for the dead.
The mass burial took place in the afternoon, when the bodies were returned to the earth and covered with a thin film of sand. Over time, the shifting desert would engulf her sons and daughters. Their flesh would feed the scarabs, ants, and scorpions; their bones would calcify the sands. The burial was without ceremony. Loved ones simply left a pile of the deceased’s clothes at the head of the grave, a symbol of letting go and an offering to passersby in need. Nothing was wasted in the desert, least of all tears.
Gabriel sat alone for the rest of the evening, grieving in his own way. He smoked Da’ud’s pipe, which the young man’s betrothed had given Gabriel at the burial.
“You shared this pipe,” she had said. “It belongs with you now.”
His anger had subsided and been replaced by a profound sense of despair. The world he’d found was as cruel as the one he’d left.
Hairan sat next to him. “I am sorry, Abyan. Sorry for your loss.”
“What do you know of my loss?”
“I can see it in your expression. You are different.”
“Well, saying good-bye to friends will do that to a man.” Gabriel made no attempt to mask his bitterness.
“I do not understand your anger. Da’ud, your friend, would not have understood it. It is the way of all life. Death comes to all living things. We do not will when it comes. It happens according to the plan.”
Tears obscured Gabriel’s vision, his emotion equal parts frustration and grief. How could he explain to this simple nomad that there was no plan, that man and man alone created destiny? He knew he could not penetrate the armor of faith that enshrouded the desert dweller. He wiped his eyes haphazardly with his palms, took a deep breath, and stared at the sky, wondering if he would ever find peace.
Hairan invaded the silence. “We could not foresee that the sandstorm would be catastrophic. And yet you knew. How?”
Gabriel sighed and spoke in a softer tone. “I cannot explain it to you, Shaykh. The things I know are my own burden.”
Hairan put a gentle arm around his shoulder. “You remember who you are, don’t you?”
“Yes. And I wish I didn’t.”
Eight
My friend Daniel,
It is my humble duty to inform you the inscriptions you have found are not what I thought them to be— that is, an innocuous account of nomadic life. There is a message here, a warning perhaps, though without the benefit of the full text I cannot give you but a partial explanation. The passage you left with me translates thus:
Great tongues of fire will cover the land.
The tainted air will feed the flames.
Smoke will rise to the heavens with a terrible fury
Until all life is devoured and there is nothing
But the eternal
“The desert takes what she wants,” Hairan said.
The two men walked down the dune to survey the damage. Gabriel felt sick. Men pulled out bodies from sandy graves and checked them for signs of life. Those not breathing were laid in a pile to receive a proper burial later. A dozen or so were in the pile already. A young woman fell to her knees and with her hands muffled a heart-wrenching scream.
“Her beloved,” said one of the men, scraping the cocktail of sand and sweat off his face. “Dead.”
When they ripped the veil from the young man’s face, Gabriel realized it was Da’ud. His skin had the sickening gray pallor of departed life. He had suffocated like the others. Gabriel fell to his knees and heaved, nothing issuing from his throat but a thread of slimy saliva. He was utterly spent, physically and emotionally.
Damn you, Hairan. Damn you and your council of fools. None of this had to happen. These people did not have to die. He wanted to bellow his anger at Hairan but thought better of it. He knew a scene like that would only make things worse for these people, who had their own grief to deal with. Instead, he joined the other men in their grim task of searching for the dead.
The mass burial took place in the afternoon, when the bodies were returned to the earth and covered with a thin film of sand. Over time, the shifting desert would engulf her sons and daughters. Their flesh would feed the scarabs, ants, and scorpions; their bones would calcify the sands. The burial was without ceremony. Loved ones simply left a pile of the deceased’s clothes at the head of the grave, a symbol of letting go and an offering to passersby in need. Nothing was wasted in the desert, least of all tears.
Gabriel sat alone for the rest of the evening, grieving in his own way. He smoked Da’ud’s pipe, which the young man’s betrothed had given Gabriel at the burial.
“You shared this pipe,” she had said. “It belongs with you now.”
His anger had subsided and been replaced by a profound sense of despair. The world he’d found was as cruel as the one he’d left.
Hairan sat next to him. “I am sorry, Abyan. Sorry for your loss.”
“What do you know of my loss?”
“I can see it in your expression. You are different.”
“Well, saying good-bye to friends will do that to a man.” Gabriel made no attempt to mask his bitterness.
“I do not understand your anger. Da’ud, your friend, would not have understood it. It is the way of all life. Death comes to all living things. We do not will when it comes. It happens according to the plan.”
Tears obscured Gabriel’s vision, his emotion equal parts frustration and grief. How could he explain to this simple nomad that there was no plan, that man and man alone created destiny? He knew he could not penetrate the armor of faith that enshrouded the desert dweller. He wiped his eyes haphazardly with his palms, took a deep breath, and stared at the sky, wondering if he would ever find peace.
Hairan invaded the silence. “We could not foresee that the sandstorm would be catastrophic. And yet you knew. How?”
Gabriel sighed and spoke in a softer tone. “I cannot explain it to you, Shaykh. The things I know are my own burden.”
Hairan put a gentle arm around his shoulder. “You remember who you are, don’t you?”
“Yes. And I wish I didn’t.”
Eight
My friend Daniel,
It is my humble duty to inform you the inscriptions you have found are not what I thought them to be— that is, an innocuous account of nomadic life. There is a message here, a warning perhaps, though without the benefit of the full text I cannot give you but a partial explanation. The passage you left with me translates thus:
Great tongues of fire will cover the land.
The tainted air will feed the flames.
Smoke will rise to the heavens with a terrible fury
Until all life is devoured and there is nothing
But the eternal
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