It crosses my mind to apologise to her, but, because she’s been so good to me, I decide she’ll probably just get over it. It’s a tactical error on my part, because I want a cuddle and some sympathy from her. Uneasy warning prickles run over me, but it’s impossible to pull my head in. Torrenclar watches from a distance, and when he hears the way I speak to Homarta, he throws me a warning look (which is embarrassing) and almost comes over but changes his mind. Flagran assesses the situation. I can see it in the way he looks from him to Homarta, but decides to leave them to it. That’s not helpful.
The inky dark mood puts me completely out of control of what I’m saying and doing. I can see it, but I can’t prevent it. I don’t even want to now. The entire day, apart from the weather, is horrible. There’s nothing to do except ruminate on how everyone’s got no idea what I’m going through, and how they certainly don’t recognise or care that I’m beginning to hate the desert. This spot is low on foliage. There’s nothing to do, and I don’t want to do camping work, like collecting wood, or making lunch. So I skulk around, ignoring Sandro, being short with Josh and avoiding the Caretakers. This would be a good day for them to disappear. Pleasing them’s way off my radar. Most of the day’s spent lying on the sand brooding.
It’s a mild evening, but not enjoyable because cramps are starting. I’ve been in shorts all day in the intense sun and am wondering whether to change into trackies or keep enjoying the fire against my legs because it helps. The desert’s quiet at our backs. Josh is in his tent with the huge headphones on, learning Arabic. He does this most evenings. Walking past his tent, which is always on the other side of the campfire to ours, you can hear him muttering and mumbling strange words. Flagran’s cooking dinner and Sandro’s going through equipment and checking our supplies. He asks me, quite reasonably, to fetch something from the car. His expression shuts down when I complain about having to leave the fire. The look is infuriating. I tell him “Get it yourself then!” He darkens, and a flash of guilt makes me spring to my feet flouncing off to do what he asked but giving him the cold shoulder.
Flagran stands. “It’s okay Bridey. I’ll get it.” He puts the wooden spoon down on the little camping table moving around me. Guilt makes me snap at him.
“I said I would get it!” He ignores that. They’re all horrible. Intending to walk to cool off because I can feel I’m about to blow, the plan is foiled because Torrenclar blocks my path. His anger is cold. Again, the thought that it’s important not to rile him returns. When I step out to go around the other side, Homarta’s standing there with a look in her eye which does not bode well. She reaches for my arm, and I jerk it away.
“Fuck off, and leave me alone. All of you.” That’s twice! I back away to disappear, but her flash of anger makes me freeze. She’s picked up the spoon and she throws it at me from a couple of metres splattering red soup all over my shorts and leaving a welt. I scream at her, “What did you do that for? Now you’ve ruined my shorts. You just don’t understand anything.”
Torrenclar steps forward closing in on me as Homarta bears down. Now, I’m shitting myself. She’s way past the talking stage. He puts out his hand stopping her, “No, Homarta. I’ll get this one.”
He grasps my arm and the camp site disappears.
It’s another set of sand dunes; no idea how far from camp. It’s just away. Everything looks exactly the same. He’s standing apart from me, tall and towering strong; his hands on his hips and zero tolerance closing his face and shutting me down. He stands this way for too long fixing me with his disgust. He’s more like an angel in this terrible moment than he’s ever appeared to me before. The expression is implacable. I dare not speak. He’s certainly not feeling excitement now. It’s complete disapproval, and there’s no softening and no love in his eyes. Inside, I begin to close down. To move into a place I have not visited for a long time. A place of self-loathing.
Then he says, “You will need to stay here for a few hours. Some time alone is clearly needed. Please use it to come to your senses before you bring more trouble on yourself than you know how to handle.” The chance to ask him to stay because I’m frightened vanishes. He’s gone.
Alone in the darkening desert intense fear chokes me. The top of the hill where I’m standing is higher than the rest and deepening evening shadows highlight valleys and crevasses creating the impression of being alone in the world physically and mentally; but not in my world. It’s like being left on another planet. It’s time to myself, but nothing like what I need. Terrified and abandoned, it takes at least an hour for my heart rate to settle, and several times I have to stop myself from attempting to walk back to safety. I keep spinning around searching for a way out, in intolerable, unbearable, extreme fear. How could Torrenclar do this, when he’s been convincing me he’s safe? I’ll never, ever trust him again.
Hours pass. Literally. Not because being alone and frightened stretches time, but because, being used to evenings in the desert, I know how long it takes from dinner preparation to the time when darkness blackens out the camp making it difficult to find the tent sometimes unless it’s highlighted by the fire. At night, getting up for a wee and stepping away from the site so as not to be heard, I’ve turned and panicked. Once the fire has dropped to coals, and if the tents are between you and the glow, there’s nothing besides stars to help get your bearings. The stars, contrary to all ideas about them, are completely useless. Well, at least to people like me who haven’t had much to do with them. I sit here on the top of my hill persuading myself that someone will come to get me. Hunger grows, and the night air chills. All I’m wearing is a singlet top and shorts. The longer it goes on, the more the fear grows that they intend to leave me here all night. I’m thirsty, and fear is gradually replaced by fury.
The dark mood deepens with the shadows. Cramps come on harder as I scrunch against the cold and then, just when it’s clear nothing could be worse than this, I begin to bleed. Full on. I stand up, and it runs down my leg and into my sneaker. There’s nothing I can do. Now, I’m wishing no one will come. At first, I pace the sand. Then I sit down which just puts me in a puddle. These shorts are doomed. I stand again, bending to pick up a handful of sand to wipe my leg. There’s no light to see what I’m doing.
After the initial flood empties itself all over me and the sand at my feet, it slows to a small trickle, and more time passes. I hate the world, this desert where there are no showers or toilets, Sandro because he caused this, Torrenclar for leaving me here, and I long for Homarta to pick me up; even if she’s still angry. She’s the only one who would understand. But, Torrenclar arrives. The length of time it took for him to come back for me makes me furious with him. He stands, his stare still full of judgement and disapproval.
The cool distance scares me into saying, “Thank you.” He looks puzzled, so I whisper, “for not....leaving me here.” Tears well up. He’s uninterested and appears not to notice the mess I’m in. Bending to the sand at his feet, he draws a circle.
“Step into that when you are ready, and it will take you home.” Then, he vanishes.
What does he mean, home? The distance and harsh words bring back the cramps and with them another flood of blood. How can I get myself home in this condition? What if the circle puts me right in the middle of the camp and everyone can see me like this. Confused, I wander, stepping forward, then back, unable to take the risk but terrified the circle won’t work if I hesitate too long. A breeze blows up, and small eddies of sand begin to whirl around me. I can’t risk it, so I step in.
When my feet stabilise under me, I have no idea where I am. There is nothing. From one side of the horizon to the other, not a sign of life. It’s too cruel. This can’t be happening. Why would he send me to another isolated place? It doesn’t make sense. As the fear, hunger, cold and embarrassment at my condition begin to panic me, I turn to look behind, and there are the tents.
Immediately, I go to ours, humiliated. They are all up to this. It’s no longer safe being with them. W
here is my dinner, and how am I going to clean myself up without waking Sandro and being embarrassed? I begin plotting revenge as I try to pull out clean clothes and put my hand on my toilet bag through a tiny opening in the zip flap. Where’s my towel? Sandro wakes up. He mutters grumpily, “For heaven’s sake, Bridey, just get into bed. You can’t shower in the middle of the night.” I back out of the tent, stomp over to the car and drag out a spare towel banging the door shut behind me as hard as I can. When I check the billy, it’s warm, so I take it into the shower set up and try to pour it into the overhead plastic container, in the dark, losing most of it in my tantrum. But, at least, I manage to clean some of the sticky mess from my legs and change into although I’m not too sure what I’m wearing. Hunger keeps me awake for hours; furious, embarrassed, and intensely sorry for myself, more than anything I want to go home. Now! Eventually sleep comes.
In the morning, it’s clear there’s no way we’re going to go home for me. The first thing I hear is someone complaining about the absence of the billy. Then, a tirade from Sandro about the mess in the shower tent. I’d been in such a rage I’d forgotten to pick it all up. I struggle out, embarrassed by what he must have found and hand out the kettle to Flagran who takes it without a word.
Everyone is normal with me, when they should be sorry. Starving, I cook some toast, but the fire’s too low and it’s taking too long, so I have a yoghurt and then grab the uncooked bread back again and smother it with jam. I’m still hungry. We go about our duties as we normally do. And I keep silent for the whole day. Whenever someone asks me something, I grunt, or nod, or say as little as possible. It’s important all of them know how angry I am, and that they’re in disgrace; especially Homarta, who I will never speak to again. She’ll be sorry, but there’s no way she’s getting away with leaving a welt on my leg. And for frightening me.
During the longest day of my life, pictures of the cold war created when my parents were fighting keep sneaking into my mind where they’re dismissed with the certain knowledge that this is completely different, and I’m the one wronged here. They’re all to blame. The worst of it is none of the Caretakers care about any of this.
Several times during the afternoon, Homarta makes pleasant remarks to me, and Sandro, once he recognises there’s more going on for me than he’d first thought, puts in lots of effort to please me, all of which I reject. If it hadn’t been for him, it would never have happened.
He’s on dinner duty. Flagran’s building the fire. Torrenclar’s sitting on top of a sand dune, and Josh is in his tent. When, Homarta comes over. I’m about to be angry with her then I see that would be a terrible mistake. I’m rooted to the spot.
She says nothing, just takes my wrist in her powerful hand and walks me back behind the tents. Although I’m frightened, I think maybe she’ll do something, and it will be alright. What she does do when we stop is point to the ground at my feet where there are several drops of blood from where I’d landed and been standing the night before. I flush. As my foot kicks out at the sand to cover the blood spots, thinking this was what she’d brought me here for, the world begins spinning, and I find my feet landing back in the circle Torrenclar drew last night.
The sun is still setting. It’s going down slowly, a red glow over her right shoulder, for she has arrived with me. She points to the ground, and for a moment, I freeze. But, at the look on her face, I decide to do what I’m told.
She sits down cross legged, gracefully for her bulk, exactly opposite me but not touching. She stares into my face until I feel extremely uncomfortable. “So, Madame. You think you are queen of the world, don’t you?” And then she gives me a look of scorn and laughs. Her voice is frightening. “You think we all need to bend to you, don’t you?” She’s not interested in any response. She leans towards me, and I hold my breath. But, she starts speaking again. “Last night, I thought I had made myself quite clear, but obviously you didn’t pick up the message.” I shake my head meaning no, I had, but she pays that no heed. “What have you to say now?” Leaning closer, she shouts the question into my face. Before there’s a chance to answer, she asks “How dare you?”
She doesn’t say another thing. Just walks away leaving me in the middle of the desert, alone and vulnerable, but this time horrified at my own behaviour. I suddenly see it. I have blocked her out after all her goodness to me. She did try. They all tried. I lie there on the sand feeling the cold breeze while my heart beats with great heaving bumps.
There’s no longer any fear of being abandoned in the desert. None of the Caretakers would leave me, even though I’ve been behaving atrociously for days. But, how long will it take? I just can’t stay here for hours again. It’s horrible being here and feeling this way. Again hunger and thirst compete with creeping cold in deepening my misery. The only time I have experienced this awful coldness in Homarta, coupled with anger, was when she confronted my mother; who had deserved it. Then, I begin to wonder who’ll come for me and jump to my feet pacing up and down while I wait in trepidation.
It is the Source.
The atmosphere, previously cool and quiet, becomes filled with kus presence. Frightened, I groan with shame and embarrassment. This won’t go well for me. I remember Elaris’ pride and cringe.
But the words are gentle. “I’m sorry Bridey. I should have given you warning. Homarta hates getting the cold shoulder. It’s one part of some women’s repertoire for which she has zero tolerance, I’m afraid.” How can I respond to that? Then ku speaks again. “In fact, I did give you warning in a way.” This puzzles me, and then into my head pop the pictures of my parents which have been there all day despite my best efforts to send them away. “She has seen a lot over the centuries, and that particular way of dealing with conflict is certainly not her favourite.”
These pictures, alternating with Homarta’s harsh and scornful words, stay with me until I can speak. It takes some time. While I think, the Source is quiet, and in the dread of being left again battle to think of something to say that will keep ku with me. “It’s a terrible situation,” I try. “Isn’t it?”
“There have been worse.” The answer comes with a tiny smile. “You have been feeling awful haven’t you?”
“I tried to stop myself from being grumpy, but it just wouldn’t go away. It keeps getting worse.”
“You usually manage to avoid people when you feel like this, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Why have you put me here where I feel trapped just when this was going to happen?
It’s like ku hears the question without me asking aloud. “Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. This time you are surrounded by friends who can cope with it with you.”
“But they didn’t!” I say indignantly. “They were all angry and have treated me terribly when I most needed support.” Something makes me lift my gaze to kus face. The look seems stern. I shrink back remembering the way I’ve been speaking to the Source. What is wrong with me? I’m a disaster.
“Bridey. It’s alright for you to say this to me, if it’s alright for me to disagree with you.” What! “Tell me about the ways in which you shared your struggle with them. Let’s take Homarta for instance.”
“I just wanted her to hold me, give me a massage, be understanding…”
“And how exactly did you go about letting her know? How did you let Sandro know what you needed? Why is Torrenclar angry?”
These are very hard questions. I can’t admit how badly I’ve behaved. “I just wanted them to know how I felt.” Maybe that makes some sense.
“How did you share your feelings?” Tears spring into my eyes. I want to be left alone. “Are you sure? That can be arranged.”
What can be arranged? What is ku talking about? “You want to be left alone?”
“No. No, please don’t leave me here”
“What would you like me to do for you?” I just want to be held. I need someone to understand how bad this has all been for me.
“Perhaps you could ask for what you want.”
Yeah. Like it’s that easy. “What can I do?” It’s a wan little voice. Many times in my conversations with the Source questions have been answered by other questions to make me think, but this time there’s a clear answer.
“You need to go back to Homarta now and put yourself in her hands.”
What? You can’t be serious. There’s no way that’s going to happen. Pictures of a grudging apology come to mind, and are rejected as more of the same and therefore dangerous to my health. But the Source is insistent. Once it’s clear I’ve made a step towards doing this in my head, ku appears satisfied, stands and holds out welcoming arms. I walk forward, unsure. For some moments, I feel held against a warm chest, and then the next thing I know I’m back at the camp again.
Obviously I can’t just go back to the tent, so I stand at the edge in the partial darkness trying to get up courage to walk into the group. Then, something changes inside me, and it’s so clear what has to be done that the Source must have inserted it into my head. Putting all my feelings of being wronged and all anger and embarrassment aside, I walk straight up to Homarta where she’s sitting. I squat down beside her. She immediately places her hand on my head, and warm vibrations move through it. When I want her to hold me though, I can’t ask. Uncontrollable sobs come from deep inside me, and she keeps her hand on my head but doesn’t invite me up. The others hold back, quiet, as this passes.
Then, Torrenclar walks off into the night.
Flagran is distant. He gathers Josh from his tent and takes him off to star gaze from the top of a sand dune. It’s going to be a while before things are fixed, if ever. A great wave of sadness closely followed by self-disgust sweeps over me. But the worst is Sandro. His love for me must have taken a shaking. He looks sad and distant. At this moment, I want to hurt myself far more than I’ve been already. Confused, he turns away from me.
There’s not much more I can do with the others, but I convince Sandro to come to bed with me determined to do absolutely everything in my power to make it up to him. In the tent, he’s unclipping his boot and the cast on his arm, rubbing briskly to get the blood under the skin flowing. He leaves all his clothes on. I pull back the sleeping bag and try to undo his pants, but he kicks me away with his good foot. Rather than put his arms around me, he just pulls the sleeping bag up over his shoulders and turns his back. I put my body up against it and try to communicate all I’m thinking about myself, without words. But it’s useless. It’s impossible to sleep, so I step out into the dark night dragging a jacket on as I go.
Eleven Hundred Sand Dunes Page 24