The dawn sun rose early over the desert. Fingers of its pale light worked their way along the cold sand and cast long shadows behind every rock and scrub bush. Desert animals, creatures of this strangely quiet time, scurried to collect their day's water supply in the dewdrops collecting under spindly, thin-leafed branches. Minute granules of sand tumbled and rolled their way down the sides of the indentations left by the tiny feet until the sand was a maze of animal tracks.In the hollow of an ancient riverbed, where the ground was hard and cracked and loose shale littered the surface, a lone horse grazed on sparse vegetation. Its black coat was coarse and dusty. Clouds of powdered sand billowed with every shake of its thick mane and swish of its long tail.
The hollow itself was still in darkness. The sun would not be high enough to light its deep recesses for some hours to come. The shadows here were deep and dark, and hid the horse's saddle from casual view. A small hole in the ground just beyond the saddle contained the glowing embers of a fire, beside it were a few rough and beaten cooking utensils. Further in, propped at the base of a small bush was an old saddlebag. The leather of the bag was dark with age, soft and subtle in that well-worn way that leather gets. Small tussles on each flap were hooked through rawhide loops. Faded wooden beads decorated each strip in recognition of a long gone frivolous moment. No other decoration adorned the utilitarian gear.
Deeper still in the hollow, where the desiccated riverbed met the base of the equally worn bank, a row of baby boulders conveniently disguised a blanket-covered man. Dusty, worn boots protruded from under one end of the coarse blanket. Tilted to one side in sleep, uneven boot heels had gouged shallow furrows in the dirt during the night. At the opposite end of the blanket, hidden by the boulders, a sweat-stained hat protected an unseen face. A thin braid of leather circled the crown of the wide-brimmed hat, once soft strips, now baked hard from wind and sun. The hat itself stiff but shaped to fit the head beneath as if made especially to do so. Straggly lengths of hair escaped from beneath the hat, sun-bleached strands stiff with the same powdered sand as the horse's wild mane.
The only other part of the man visible was a callused hand that rested limply on the edge of the blanket. Fingertips clutched the thick seam with a gentleness that contrasted with the hardened palms, skin used to the rough grip of leather and earth, the splintered wood of countless tools.
A soft nicker from the horse startled the man from his slumber and the long fingers, in any other life fine and delicate, flexed suddenly in a white-knuckled grip of the blanket's edge. The horse nickered again, soft and gentle to welcome the coming day. The strong fingers relaxed with the second sound and withdrew beneath the covering. A few quiet moments later the blanket and hat were simultaneously pushed away and the man sat up with a restrained stretch and a yawn. Ignoring the pull of muscles and creak of joints, the man pushed himself to a standing position and carefully observed his surroundings.
Clearing his eyes of sleep with the heel of his hand, his sharp gaze fell on the dying fire. He squatted down beside it and picked up a long stick to stoke the embers then grabbed a handful of the twigs and dry grass he'd collected the day before. Dropping them into the hole the fire quickly renewed and was soon flaming enough to think about putting on some water to boil. The man picked up the coffeepot from the previous night and stirred the used coffee grinds around a little before adding fresh water and placing it over the fire. Standing once more he ambled over to where the weathered rocks once formed a wall jutting out from the bank and relieved himself into the dirt. His eyes followed the crumbling line of wall that headed straight out into the centre of the riverbed then did a right angle upriver a good twenty feet before angling back to the riverbank. Parts of the wall had completely disappeared; other parts were little more than a few rocks in a line. There was enough to tell that the wall was not a natural phenomenon but had been built deliberately. The man idly wondered what its purpose might have been and felt a slight tickle of memory that skipped away as soon as he tried to place it. Finishing his business, he followed the wall along running his hand over its rough surface. There was no indication that it had ever been decorated, no other signs were present, just a three-walled construction – four if you counted the steep bank – in the middle of a dried up river.
The bubbling sound of water boiling caught his attention and brought his wandering thoughts back to the present. He headed back to his small fire his boots crunching almost noiselessly on the hard-packed ground, scuffing at the loose sand that was slowly filtering across the riverbed and turning to dust the bones of a long-dead fish. Pulling his bandanna from around his neck as he walked, he folded it into a thick square and, once again squatting beside the fire, used it to pick up the hot pot of coffee. He filled his mug with the pungent brew and put the pot back on the fire, slightly to the edge so it wouldn't boil away. Reaching for the saddlebag, he opened it and pulled the wrapped remains of a packed lunch – a few dry biscuits – out and, standing again, took the mug of coffee and the food up to the top of the riverbank. He found a suitable rock to sit on, turned his back to the ghost of a river and watched the sun come up.
Desert mornings were his favourite time of day. The quiet and solitude set against the busy activities of the local wildlife were a balm for a soul that craved such times, a soul that felt fettered and trapped when surrounded by the bustle of town life and the constant noise of people. A man could go days in the desert without needing to utter a single word or think a single thought other than where the next meal might come from or how blue the sky would be each morning.
The sky on this morning was the palest of blues, a wash of watery colour over the soft grey of the retreating night. He sipped his coffee and took a slow bite of biscuit and grazed the horizon with his eyes. The blue here was much deeper, thicker – a blanket of azure that followed the sun to its highest ebb and would soon cover the entire breadth of sky for as far as a man could see. Out here in the desert, that was a hell of a long way.
He watched the sun rise for over an hour moving only to drink the coffee and eat the biscuit, until it was time to head out again, back to where he was always on guard, back to the buildings and the chattering and the noise that never stopped. Back to where he kept the desert as a memory in his mind, a soft dry breeze that blew in and around him, for all the unguarded moments he had yet to find and yet to live.
THE END
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