Clouds of dust and grit enrage the nostrils, mock the mouth. Slogging shifting sand tries to submerge the feet. An enraged tempest.
He trudges on, one footstep at a time, each an aching echo of his soul.
The sand pings against his googles, creating a screeching cacophony with his thoughts. Numbing his mind. It’s already been four hours in this storm.
Will he ever reach the well of water he seeks?
Waves of sand barrage him. all he can really see is darkness and a cloudy rushing wall of gritty particles intent on taking him down. But he will prevail. He always has.
He trudges on. left, right, left, right, left… Waves of silt and grit barrage him in antagonistic attack. Like the storm has a mind of its own. Perhaps it does.
It howls momentarily louder than before.
Suddenly off balance, he stumbles in the dark and lands on his knees. pain shoots through his left knee and he grimaces. That wound is an old one.
Why is the desert so careless? Does it not care for its creatures?
First one foot, and then another, He stands with a great effort and begins to climb up the slope that impeded his progress. one foot after another.
Left, right, left, right, left…
maybe an hundred and fifteen steps later, he reaches the top the wind proceeds to howl and beat against him like something alive. Coming in gusts of merciless fury and then weak bravado.
He did not underestimate the power of the storm.
He reaches the crest and takes off his coat, sits on it. Then he lifts his feet begins to slide. His progress is slower than you might think, but not sluggish.
He rests in the embrace of the gale, slides quickly, letting gravity do the hard work. One with his environment, rushing downhill.
A creature of the desert. He knows his place in the desert, a native of her sands and fallibilities.
He reaches the bottom with a thump and nearly loses his balance. But he picks his coat up, ready to begin the trek up the next dune.
He trudges forward, left, right, left, right, left… He had hoped to find her at the next town. His love, his dove of excellent beauty. But circumstances had forced him to retreat to his home town across the desert, and when he wanted to return — this came upon him.
howls of monstrous seeming insanity assault his ears and mind.
He stumbles a little as he discovers the beginning of another upward slope and begins to climb.
He will reach water by this evening. Then he will continue on, across the vast desert. His body needs moisture, already his tongue is thick in his mouth. The time glass of his life seems to be running out.
Sand for Sand, and no water for company. The desert could be cruel.
Sixteen mountains of dusty gritty sand later a reprise, a rest comes upon him. A rest sorely needed. The howling wavers and begins to waver and sound less threatening and beastly.
In three minutes it wanes to nothing and the azure sky is revealed like a scroll. It blinds his eyes with vibrant blue, a seamless tapestry.
The rebellious dunes stretch in every direction in brilliant orange, a cry of insolence against his mind. A quick thought of desperation, then quiet.
He will find water.
This is a new and improved version of my Poem or story based on the Dune books by Frank Herbert. I remember sitting in jail reading these books voraciously and intently which my brother had sent in the mail. Herbert’s stories are the product of a strong imagination and a creative spirit.
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