Chapter VII: The Madness of Creation
In which their path is set…
The first rays of morning light are said to be better than any alarm clock in the world, a fact which Barsch had come to believe through his travels. The moment the polarized photons touched his sleeping face, he opened his eyes and yawned with well-rested delight. The ethereal fire had been snuffed out sometime in the night, leaving behind a ring of slightly charred stones. Barsch sat up and stretched, as his recollections of the previous day slowly trickled in. So jubilant was he that he half expected Alza, Kingston and Maloch to appear from behind a nearby dune, and was only slightly disheartened when they failed to do so.
His parched lips and rumbling stomach reminded him that he had not eaten nor drunk for several days, but his strange optimism assured him that he would be fine. A moment later, however, his cheerful world was broken. He had tried to stand, forgetting in his morning delight the damage to his leg. Pain -white hot and relentless- drove him back down to the ground. Whimpering like a stricken dog, he lay crying until he ran out of tears.
Eventually he recovered his wits and sat up. Rolling back the material covering his wounded leg, he almost vomited from the resultant sight. His broken limb had taken on a motley appearance, with multiple bruises and open sores covering its length. Putrid pus oozed from every hole, the stink of it gagging him. An alarming thought popped into his mind, “Infection. This is bad. Really, really bad…”
If he had thought that the previous day's journey was hard, travelling with such an infected leg would be excruciating. And even if he made it to the oasis, he would either die from the infection or live the rest of his short life a cripple.
In his panicking mind, a wild thought emerged, “Wait a minute, I'll just ask that guy... um, what was his name? Terry, Torry... Terra! I'll just ask him for help!”
Barsch turned to where he had last seen the enigmatic man who called himself “Terra” but found only dirt and sand. For an instant, Barsch began to wonder if the man had been nothing more than an illusion, created by his sub-conscious in order to give him hope.
“No! He was real. He has to be real! Please, please let him be real… I mean, I saw him move those dunes, and create that fire out of thin air. I'm sure he's just gone to fetch some... water, or something. Yeah, he must’ve done that. He wouldn't leave an injured man all alone in the middle of a desert, right?”
Full of indecision and self-doubt, Barsch crawled over to where he had dropped Lanista the night before. Once more using it as an improvised crutch, he finally managed to stand. Gritting his teeth in an effort to block out the pain, he began to peer in every direction, hoping to catch sight of that emerald cloak and comforting smile.
After several minutes of fruitless searching, Barsch gave up, reasoning that there was no point in waiting for a man who could leave without even saying good-bye. As he was about to leave, however, he noticed something half-buried in the sand. Carefully, so as not to hurt his damaged leg, he bent down and pulled out a brown flask which, judging from the swish of its contents, was filled with some kind of liquid. Uncapping the lid, he took a sip, and an image of glaciers and snow immediately filled his mind. It was the purest water he had ever tasted, completely lacking the pungent after-taste he had come to expect from ordinary, pollutant filled water. The other unique thing was its temperature. It was refreshingly cold, a word which was hardly ever associated with the boiling expanse of the desert during daytime.
After quenching his thirst, he gave the traditional sign of thanks, which had long since fallen out of practice. Placing both palms on his chest, he bowed, extending his hands palm-up towards some unseen deity. The sign had arisen from a nomadic saying, “Everything I have, I offer unto you,” which had been said by any guest who had taken advantage of their host’s generosity.
The rite of thanks-giving over, he pocketed the flask, covered the smouldering stones with a few well aimed kicks of sand, and moved on. With every step bringing fresh pain, he reasoned that he could not afford to waste time.
Awakening Page 83