The Spyglass

The Spyglass, Or Myth of the First Orphan

The house stands strong despite its sandy foundation. Miles of digging had yielded a layer fit for the necessary starting place. Now, level with the dune runoffs, a patch of grass frames the boundaries of what had become possible in such a wasteland: an oasis, home to an eccentric hermit and his flower garden. He tends to it now, frail spine comforted in familiar bend, spade in hand. A forgotten smile tugs at his stroke-afflicted mouth, but an intensity circles his irises, evidencing the internal battle to rediscover just a memory or two.

***

A pounding of hooves fell upon the runoff of the dunes. No one could hear it inside the marketplace. Soft hands traded greetings beside merchants’ goods. Calloused fingers scuffed the dust-blown streets for riches. Ivory laughter, djembe beats, and wails from the gutters rang with an ignorant song.

Alone on a watchtower stood a young man with sharp, hollowed eyes; eyes that knew too much. Before anyone, he saw the hooded horsemen. They pounded beneath his perch, bloodshot eyes flicking back whence they came. The young man imagined their mouths repeating “dust storm, dust storm” beneath their scarves. He reached for his battered spyglass, an artifact of a time long buried, and scanned the expanse. Arms froze as a cloud of sand consumed his vision. Air only half filled his lungs before he pulled the warning bells; together they formed a disharmonious duet of doom.

Above the panic that was instantly strewn out below him, the young man longed for the sea.

***

Some may wonder at the man’s choice of habitat; others may question his isolation. Yet the key to knowing is simple recollection, a key which the man can seldom find. So his days are spent chasing the winds of his past. Failures had bred him a long life; yet, determined for a single victory, he will dig until the end.

The hermit thrusts the spade into fertile soil, dislodging stones and burying flower roots, an ebb and flow that stretches into evening. Hours pass and on he digs, gardening under a grave moon. Amidst shadows and patches of silver, his spade begins to uproot the treasures of his stubborn mind.

***

He stroked his reflection in the jade-colored sea, two bright spots doubly hued in the position of his eyes. A brass spyglass prodded his thigh, a traveling gift from his father. The gentle sway of the boat provided the only breath he needed, and through a translucent chamber, the glittering city on the shore painted swirls of daydreams.

“Next time we will go by desert.” It was the scratchy voice he loved so dearly, the voice that tickled his middle; the voice of his father.

“You have spoiled me with this sea,” he breathed. “I will love it forever.”

A warm hand rested on his shoulder and he looked up. “Only the ignorant flies to permanency, ya ibni." His eyes were hard in their chastisement. You are not ignorant." The heat was lifted as the man turned away.

The pair was soon stalking the dunes, leaving impressions of sea-legs behind them. Nearing the city, he breathed aromas of spices within the ocean’s breath. It was an air more precious than the gold of Ghana. It was a succulent nectar which, for a single moment, made him believe it could sustain him all his days.

He greeted the beckoning city with unbridled eagerness, eyes wide to the gilded shops and canvased tents. It was a wildflower field of human life, resplendent in reds, purples, blues. Flutes topped djembe drums, dancing feet conjuring little devils.

Distraction passed the hours swiftly while his father attended business. Meandering through the stalls took him to an unexpected end, a boundary of epitomized insanity.

The desert.

He stared, breath gone.

The expanse captured him so completely, the terror of it erasing any infatuation with the jade sea like footprints in a dust storm. From a distance, a tall shadowy shape frowned at him, a curiosity intended for a brass spyglass. It was a watchtower. Studying the proud thing, he imagined himself atop it. Protector.

But in the wake of his occupied mind, a chill spread down his back. His father! He sprang across the runoff of the dunes, clutching his spyglass like a babe to his chest. Colliding into the bustling, nonchalant garden of wildflowers, he raced against a silent clock. Desperation mounted to heightened clarity, his eyes shining with the image of the man he dearly loved, ears tuned to the scratchy voice which tickled his middle. Next time, we will go by desert. The promise echoed in his father’s absence, fading into a silence of permanence.

Next time we will go…Next time…

As the sun tapped the peak of the dunes, he collapsed, weeping; weeping. A hard prodding bruised his skin with each wracking sob, but he clung to it, willing the artifact to hug him back. For no matter the miles he would traverse upon wobbling knees, there would never be a next time.

***

The hermit gasps in a silver midnight, dreams of watchtower bells and a father’s touch piercing the veil of his broken mind. He looks to his bedroom window at a strange, small telescope pointing towards the endless dunes.

The crown of his head pinches a crippling pain, and gasp after gasp yields a swirling cloud sweeping his vision. A harsh voice resounds as his lungs fill halfway: Look at your wings, ya ibni.

The hermit lies still in a half-dug grave, a remembered smile upon his lips.