Notes: This is an "off screen" episode. The premise of it is taken from Shapeshifting, by John Perkins, an anthropological study of one aspect of Shamanism.
Thanks to: Annie for an excellent beta, and the series creators to give me something so fun to work off of!
In space, when I had seen the sun, it had seemed a distant and unimportant thing; a momentary flash of brilliance that windows closed to and eyes avoided. Now, it dominated the world around me - never to be looked at but not to be ignored. The clothing I'm wearing today is unfamiliar but more practical for this new terrain: loose white pants and a light top which covers all of me but my hands and head. The latter is covered by a long coil of cloth that Rashid helped me to put on, this first morning in the desert, but it will only be a matter of time before I wear my native dress as casually as any earth-born Arab. I can feel the desert wind slithering along the sand to lift the fabric along my back, but I don't take my gaze from the darkness along the edge of the distant horizon.
"Ahmed, is that water?"
"No, young master. It's a mirage. The closest water is two days walk from here, which is why we brought our own."
Twenty of the forty Maguanac Corps, Ahmed and Rashid included, are with me today, each garbed so similarly to me that only my short stature revealed which I was. Well, stature and that betraying pallor that made the cloth of my Dishdasha seem to be nothing more than an extension of my skin and causes the Aba hanging loosely from my shoulders to seem dark by comparison. The same colors have the opposite effect on Ahmed, my companion, making his dusty skin seem a deeper, richer brown.
"Won't the camels get thirsty? We only brought enough for ourselves."
"Camels are used to it, Master Quatre. They carry their water in their humps."
"I remember reading that," I muse, leaning back to look up at Ahmed, to catch the glint of watchfulness in his eyes; even in the heart of the desert, we were at risk. "Were they constructed that way?"
"No one knows for sure. The camels have been in the desert longer than we have, young master. Perhaps it was Allah himself, praise be to him, who created the camels to carry us across the desert."
"It looks so barren." I can hear the excitement and wistfulness in my voice. "It feels as if we're the only people in the world." A sudden concurrence tickles the edge of my mind, "It's like space, really - endless sameness that hides so much life. Why did we bring camels today instead of the trucks?"
"Rashid believes we should take time to honor our ancestors by living within their means," Ahmed explains, crouching down so he can peer out of the tent flap beside me. "That is why the tent took us so long to put up," he adds, eliciting a round of laughter from me. I had found the entire process hysterical. "It has none of the mechanical improvements of our usual tents."
"Do you mind? I mean... it must be more difficult."
"Sometimes the most important things are the most difficult, Master Quatre." The man pauses, then sits cross-legged beside me. "Once there were great tribes who lived solely upon the desert. These people could go days on a handful of dates and a sip of water. She is a harsh lady, but she can be generous to those who honor her spirit and have learned her secrets."
I lean up on my elbows, the position reminding me of the Cobra pose I learned in long-ago yoga lessons. The rough fabric of the silver and gold rugs that rested above the sand digs into the uncovered flesh of my wrists as my weight bears down. "Secrets?"
Ahmed smiles faintly, but does not answer the question. "These tribes moved freely across her sands even as we Maguanac do now. They were called the Bedouin and their skin and eyes were as dark as yours are light. They were traders on the desert as well as the raiders of poorly defended caravans, and their ways were as heartless as the desert herself. Those who were strong enough to survive the desert - those who knew her and loved her, would live. Those who could not were left to die." His eyes snap from desert to my watching gaze, the emotions within them liquid. The intensity of Ahmed's love was a physical thing, felt as well as seen, and the vast depths of it that were as empty and yet as full as the desert itself. "The Bedouin were our ancestors, Master Quatre. We carry their spirit within the Maguanac Corps. Mercy is a wonderful thing, Allah be praised, but in harsh times the people must also become harsh."
Flushing faintly at the gentle rebuke, I am forced to smile. The Corps finds my offer of mercy to my enemies a weakness instead of the strength I see it as. I know I'll win anyway; why not allow those doomed to be my enemies an escape? "But you are not harsh to your allies," I point out, "only to your enemies."
"Sometimes the truest love is also the harshest." A wavering call comes up from behind the tent, and Ahmed smiles and rises. "But you will understand, in time. Now it is time to eat." I put my much smaller hand in his calloused one and he pulls me to my feet. "Now you will eat as we have always eaten," he teases me, not for the first time," and the fire of the desert will be in your mouth and stomach as well as your eyes."
"Just as long as I have enough bread," I reply lightly, reminded of my first tastes of spicy desert food. I don't think the experience will ever truly leave my tongue. "Though if I catch aflame, you'll have to put me out and that would waste more water than is wise."
"True words, young Master. True words." Ahmed slows his pace to match mine as I fight my way across the desert sands.
"I don't know how you do it." My breath is harsh even to my own ears as I stumble toward the open sided canopy beside the cooking pits. "My feet keep sinking into the sand."
Ahmed's laughter flavors his words. "Let us hurry to the rugs, then, Master Quatre, so you may walk more easily."
Chewing on the last of the dense bread in the shade of the canopy, I finally have space unmuffled by eating or talking to reflect upon the desert surrounding me. Reclined mountains of white are in the foreground as the corps succumb to the combined weight of full stomachs and heat. Silhouetted in the distance, I can see the pine-tall sentries posted on the dunes surrounding our valley. I can feel the heat pressing into my skin as I sip some water from the canteen that crosses under the binoculars around my neck. All but the fiercest fires in my mouth are sent to sleep by that brief rush of oddly cold water, and I settle back down on the rugs, feeling the firmness of the sand below them. Experimentally, I breathe through my lips again and almost laugh at the bright flood of heat that enters my throat. It's like the rush of battle - harsh and buoyant as if Sandrock and I are moving in an effortless dance through air and enemies both. The absence of Sandrock's silhouette against the sky is like a physical ache, but he's hidden safely below ground with the rest of the Maguanac Corps' suits. For today, for just a little while, I am a young boy on a trip with my guardians and not a Gundam pilot or the heir to the Winner fortune.
Above me, I notice a circle of large birds in the distance. "Mahmoud?" I shift upward a little, gaining the attention of the nearest man, "What are those?"
"Vultures, Master Quatre," the large man replies, stretched out under the shade of the giant canopy with a rug folded under his head. "Between them and the sands, nothing dead or injured is left for long." His eyes close sleepily. "There are places further west where you can find great oceans of bones from the animals who haven't survived the passage."
"Do people ever die out here?"
"Not often," is the placid reply. "In groups, with water and camels or jeeps people are insulated from the desert."
"What about alone?" When Mahmoud doesn't reply, I sit up further and peer through the growing haze to see his sleeping form an arms-breadth away, his headcloth lying loosely over his face. I laugh softly as I lay back once more to watch the sky. It's clear today, not even one cloud above us to block the sun from the surface. Small winds dance up swirls of sand, causing shimmers in the air as it whips through the heat.
My eyelids grow weighty and gritty as the wind gusted sand across the rugs and under the canopy. I feel suspended in emptiness, floating within the stark landscape between sky and sand, unweighed by worldly concerns of war and protection. Gradually I can feel my eyes close, and as darkness descends I know no more.
I am first aware of the sensation of grit against my skin, scouring one of my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. I feel the wind, next, unexpectedly heavy on my face, and I can feel my hair being pushed upward and backward against the sand. I lift my hand, only half-aware of where I am, and I can feel the cool slip of sand as it slides down my open sleeves to pool near my elbows. My eyelids feel bruised and tight, and the sand clinging to my fingers doesn’t help, especially when I wipe my eyes. "Ahmed..." I sit up, expecting to see my body guard for the hour somewhere nearby, absently shaking out my sleeve before I pull up my hood up so I can open sand filled eyes without fear of the wind and sun. Nothing but the emptiness of the desert surrounds me. The rugs are gone - covered by sand? - as are the mountains of white I had been encircled by when I fell asleep. I can feel anxiety clench in the pit up my stomach, and I look up, hoping to find the sentries and the comforting white of the canopy we were under, but the pale blue of the sky is the only thing above me. I can tell by the taut hotness of my face that I had been out in the sun long enough for it to burn through the heavy layer of sunscreen I had applied this morning at the base.
The base, which is hours away by jeep, and even longer by foot.
I am alone.
Panic takes a moment to arrive - surely I would have awakened earlier if we had been attacked? - but it settles firmly in my gut when I dig down under where I’m sitting and find only sand. No rugs. No cloth. No indication that a meal had been cooked twenty feet to the northeast or that a large canopy had been stretched as protection against the unrelenting sun.
"Rashid?" I push myself upward, my legs as unsteady as ever on the shifting sands. The wind is picking up even more, and sand begins to swirl around my legs. "Mahmoud?" The wind brings my words back to me along with a mouthful of sand; I spit off to one side, turning my face from the wind, and wipe my face with the back of my hand; the sand digs painfully into my skin, rubbing the already abraded skin raw. "Where is everyone?"
I scramble to the top of the nearest dune to get a better picture of my situation, but this effort is fruitless. Not only is there no indication that a sentry ever stood here, but as far as my eyes can see there is nothing, only endlessly undulating sand. Turning toward the sun, I shade my eyes enough to catch a glimmer of black, gleaming like water. I had slid halfway down the dune before I remembered Ahmed's earlier words - no water for miles. "It must be a mirage." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, the only human sound around me for the first time in my life. "What could have happened?"
Dropping down to crouch in the sand, I scan the valley I had left for any unnatural mounds that might indicate a Maguanac Corp member buried under the sand. Were my companions still here, I should be able to see some indication of their presence; I had barely been covered with sand when I awoke. It didn’t take long for my eyes to begin to burn and water, though, tears drifting sideways to mingle with the wind before I am forced to close my eyes.
There is no other way to view the situation; for some reason I have been abandoned in the middle of a desert. There is no indication of foul play, nor any sign that an emergency has occurred. The only logical conclusion is that it was deliberate... but why? I force my mind back to practicalities; the why can wait until I am out of this situation. I take a deep breath, remembering the dry tones of Instructor H’s voice as he went over the basics of crisis management, an absurdly dry phrase for the quandary I now find myself in.
First, assess the situation. I’m two days walk from water, so there isn’t any time to waste. With a sudden shock of adrenaline, I check to see if I still have my canteen, and find it blessedly hanging around my neck. It is half full; if I’m careful I might make it. My only other belongings are the binoculars around my neck, my identification papers, both forged and not, and a few mangled credits I had stuffed into the money belt I kept under my clothing. No weapons or communication apparatus, an oversight I silently swear won’t occur again. The sun is nearing the horizon now, sending long shadows down the dunes and leaving the other sides bathed in harsh sunlight.
Second, make a plan. It would be best to walk after dusk, when the sun isn't beating so harshly and movement won’t require as much water. I can look for the tracks of animals if I get off course, and otherwise try to retrace our path using the sun as guidance. If I’m careful, I should make it.
The weakness in the wake of panic is almost as bad as the panic itself. I let myself slip down the dune, wrapping my clothing so that sand can't creep through and do further damage or get caught in uncomfortable places. In inches and shifts, I manage to make a nest of sorts on the lee side of the sand, pulling my hood down so that it covers all but my eyes. I am not thankful for the leisure; it would be far more satisfying, if far more foolish, to start out immediately. In my gut I feel an ache of anxiety for my companions; what could have possible happened that was drastic enough for something like this? Nothing made any sense, and the dislocation I feel, looking out over the sand as the only living thing for miles, is almost physically painful.
The presence of the Maguanac Corps had served as a buffer of sorts against my darker thoughts; they were all so optimistic that it was bound to rub off. Out here, though, it was as if my inner wasteland was reflected outside of me, smothering me with its nearness. I had always felt alone, even within crowds of people. I had always been set apart. Even among the Corps that is my new family, I am ‘Master’ Quatre, set above and apart by some intangible force that seems destined to isolate me for my entire life. I never want it. I never ask for it. I always get it.
I can feel the wind blow around me, its touch somehow soothing. I shift an inch or two more, and the sand is supporting me entirely, as if it was made to support me. With some startlement, I can feel a tear trace its way out of my eyes; I didn’t even realize I was sad. In a way, it isn’t until my isolation is so bleakly laid out around me that I realize how much it hurts; now if only I had a solution to my problem. It isn’t as simple a problem as leading a troop in war – a fairly textbook activity at this point, almost boring in its simplicity. It isn’t even as simple a problem as getting out of this desert.
Sometimes I think that, no matter how hard I try to reach out, those whom I am reaching toward will always put walls up between us.
I wake after dark, only then aware of the fact that I fell asleep. The sand around has settled more fully around me while I slept, almost covering me; it’s comfortable sensation, if an alien one, but now that night has fallen I need to get on my feet. Peeking over the top of the dunes, I watch the horizon shift from red to purple as the sun slips out of sight. I stand up under the stars, feeling a shiver run through me as the wind catches under my dishdasha and sends sand arching away from me, leaving only red tracks on my arms as a reminder of what was once there. Even that pain is welcome; it sharpens my focus and wakes me up.
The sand is uneven and slippery beneath the soles of my boots. It takes me a while to finally stabilize at the crest of the hill, half standing and half kneeling, remembering the star charts Instructor H had shown me. The screen had been slightly fuzzy, I can remember, and the blue had been clear and artificial. The spots of light in my memory corresponded roughly with some of the panorama that began to form over my head, and it only took me ten minutes to mesh my memories with the external, and far more real, desert night sky.
I then shift my mind to our travel through the desert. The sun had been behind my right shoulder as I rocked ungracefully atop the camel, which meant we had been traveling roughly southwest. My eyes find the North Star and track downward to the horizon. Somewhere in that direction is the base.
I turn to face the direction I need to go, but my inattention to my feet costs me dearly, in terms of balance, though, not money. One moment I’m settling my plans in my mind to my satisfaction, and the next I’m tumbling pell-mell down a hill and the world is spinning and full of sand. I end up flat on my back at the base of the sand dune, staring up at the sky and knowing I should feel thankful that I didn’t hurt anything, rather than annoyed that I lost my balance in the treacherous sand. Sitting up, I spit sand from my mouth and try, unsuccessfully, to wipe it off of my face. I must look a sight; for the first time I’m glad no one is here; I would hate for them to see me looking so undignified.
After several moments, and the use of some water to get my face somewhat clean again and empty my mouth of sand, I scramble to my feet and reorient myself, this time at the bottom of the sand dune. Once I get my bearings, I turn northeast and begin to walk, my feet sinking into the soft sand.
It takes only a few dozen steps for me to feel my energy begin to flag. Fighting against the deceptively light surface of the sand, I can feel a burn begin in my upper thighs and spread to my calves. I grit my teeth and try to step lightly. After several minutes I realize that there is a thin crust on top of the sand; perhaps I can manage to stay on top instead of sinking down past my ankles.
Time seems to be crawling instead of flying as I struggle across the sand, but after several brief rests to sip water and stretch my aching muscles, I finally begin to get the way of sand-walking. A couple of hours after that, at my regular five-dune break, I realize that for the handful of steps right before I rested I had left no trace of myself on the surface of the sand. Over the dune behind me, I can see upturned sand and then... nothing - as if I had been lifted off the earth at that point. Emboldened by my success, I begin again with new heart; it’s several hours until dawn, so I have no time to waste. A glance upward to check the stars, though, is all that it takes to send me face-first into the ground, swallowing another mouthful of sand. At this rate, I’ll be more desert than man!
Breathing in unsteadily as I try to sit up, I can feel a burning frustration at the back of my eyes. I try to fight it off, sitting back on my knees and resting abraded palms on my thighs, head bowed beneath the weight of the moon. The wind whispers across the surface of the desert, sending sand flying in its wake to brush against my face and clothing. The caresses are light, almost ticklish, but contain enough substance to stir my bangs and cool the heat of my brow. Resigned to a longer rest, I remove the tube covering my ears and neck and instantly feel the difference as the evening breeze ruffles my hair like a fond parent. Taking a deep breath, I stand up and balanced unsteadily once more, tucking my hood into one arm of my dishdasha for safekeeping. The desert won’t conquer me this easily.
After a moment of stargazing, I begin to tread across the surface of the sand once more. This time, I focus on falling into a regular rhythm, taking care each time I look up to not lose the way of it. After a while it seems almost as if the ground is rising up to meet me as I step, my legs moving endlessly, my steps vanishing from the ground, somehow in a state of stasis in union with the sand. It isn’t until the sun startles me by its appearance that I realize the rest of the night has passed without my noticing.
Instinctively, I settle along the base of one of the dunes, settling back into the sand as if it were a favored chair I had sat in a million times, or my haven of a bed back in my father’s house – the only place where no one can touch me. This time, I notice the variety in the sand around me, how each grain is distinct from the others though together they become a uniform pale gold. The desert seems less empty, now. I took a sip from my canteen, realizing from the heft of it that I hadn’t drunk for quite some time. The liquid is like an awakening all its own. All of my senses seem heightened, even that vague extra one that only I seemed to have – my Spaceheart. Through it, I can feel the life within the desert; though my eyes don’t see it, my senses know it is there. Comforted in my solitude that is no longer solitude, I let myself drift off to sleep as the sun lights up the dune in front of me. I’ll move to the other side of the dune at noon.
When I awaken this time, the shock is of hearing voices rather than not hearing them. "You did well, Master Quatre." Rashid’s voice seems to contain the same quality as the sandy wind around us. I blink up at him as he looms over me, shading my half-buried body with his own, much larger one.
"Rashid...? Are you all right? Were we attacked?" The sky above is bright and clear; it’s nearing noon. "What happened?" I sit up more fully, taking in the bunch of men off to one side with the camels.
"How do you feel, Master Quatre?"
"I feel... fine." I rise with my newfound confidence on the sand, balancing without truly thinking about it. "What happened?" I ask again, looking up at him until the sun turns my visions to dazzles and light. I can’t catch his expression, but from him I sense a great river of reverence that shocks me to my core. "Why did everyone leave me?"
"You were never alone, young Master," Rashid answers easily, though I can tell by his tone that he knows this won’t satisfy me. He means me to work for it, then.
"Then what happened?" Rashid turns to walk toward the remainder of the Corps and I follow easily, even though I have to quicken my pace to keep up with Rashid’s longer legs.
"The desert is our mother, Master Quatre," Rashid answers quietly. "It is a relationship that cannot be explained. Our kinship with her can only be experienced and then known." He smiles down at me, his expression visible now that we’ve turned our backs to the sun. "She is now your mother, too."
"My mother..." I remember the sense I got of the Earth pushing back up on me, and the feeling of Presence, though no one was around. I remember how each sand is individual, and how even though it seemed empty at first, the desert soon seemed full of light, waiting to be seen. Turning back toward the sun, I wonder if my actual mother would have been like this, barren and giving both, cruel and kind in equal measure. Would she have blinded me with her radiance even as she calmed me with her silent words? The sand, solid and yielding beneath my feet, gives me the answer.
Yes.
to be continued...