15 -17 - 19

No one ever expects to be in the desert, but it happens. Be it a wrong turn at Albuquerque, echoes of the past, whispers of the future, or bad advice from a lying camel: "Sure, it will be a wonderful experience... glorious sunsets... the amazing feeling of your feet sinking in to the warm sand... the sky as far as you can see... we'll count the myriad number of stars together at night..."

Oh, if you can ever believe these camels but there he was and there it was. The desert still beckoned him wholly with a full embrace of his heart and soul:

"I can drop my blood,
And leave a trail,
From here to the end,
Without fail..."

And the winds of the desert announced its message to him, sent forth a horse of destiny, rode with blazing eyes all golden, but it was only the sun.

It was a journey of many days for him, though they all had been that way lately.

He had a small parasol with him, an umbrella shielding him from the direct rays of the sun. Much needed, for the hot furies could immolate the coldest heart.

Though a warm heart he had, he was still a lost man of lost dreams and lost hopes... quite lost.

His mind drifted along the sands of the desert and the sands of time... here a dune, there a dune, one more over the horizon...and still another one... "What does consume the fading night but the day?" Mind.. ponder... echo... dawn... sands...time. "Always ulimited time and sands greet us," he thought aloud.

A movement, stealthy, caught the corner of his eyes. "What unseen illusions taste the tears of the gods or the cry of the hawk?" And the hawk cried somewhere in the distance. "Maybe it's a sign?" he thought.

So onward he marched, a slow steady cadence, and his feet dug down, softly branding the land with a mark of his own.

It was late in the evening, day three, the night of the Witches Moon and the desert held its collective breath. For a strange and mystical vision greeted all who were there. The Dark Watchers, silent observers of the breadth of life's energy made their presence complete.

 The Witches, thousands of sorcerers, riding the dark lightning, the  Eldritch winds, the black currents circling, as far as the eye could see.

The desert air sizzled, scattered, rose and fell in heart-thuddering bursts, a hearken to eons long forgotten, consumed by the energy of ten thousand ages and sages.

And the Witches now headed for the moon with great excitations, a dread summoning.

The sorcerers chanted:

By all that is pure,
All that is sacred,
The Mandagora Stone rises,
And the Great Serpent swallows the moon...

The Witches swallowed the moon. Engorged themselves. Took over its place in space.

And changed it!

Transformed it into a gleaming crystal shard, blooded red, a new vampire of the dusk... and flew with it, directly toward the sun.

Where they plunged it fast and furiously into the gloriously noble heart of the sun.

What his eyes revealed! An incomparable sight, tendrils
stretching to infinity, galactic filaments, reaching out with soul-shattering cry, all vanquished.

Terrifying realms, his world as knew it obliterated. Tonight a planet died, a sun died, the solar system destroyed and the galaxy begging for mercy.

He laid down once more. This time he dreamt of the ocean and elephants.

The dunes had moved. Shifting sands like days of our lives, and what had appeared?

Polished and desert-varnished, a camel, as magnificent as it was in life. An imposing skeleton for the ages past, present, and a future to behold.

The camel had talked with the winds and sands of time. "Uncover me," it said, "for I am here for ages and ages." And they did.

And what tales it could indeed tell in life or death. For instance, how it even got here, the middle of nowhere? The desert has mysteries as much as it has its perils.

The scorpion paused to let the man enjoy his folly and the man marvelled about his find, studying the bones of the skeletal beast with an adroit eye.

For wrapped around the camel's neck, held fast to the skeleton for all these years, was a leather mailbag, at one time shiny and ornate now very much scuffed and wrinkled, chapped and chewed up, but smooth in places, labeled Property of the US Post Office.

He decided to investigate further -- look inside at his own peril -- and brushed the sand and dirt away, unzipping and unbuttoning the pouch.

Empty. The mailbag was bereft.

The camel had carried out it's duty faithfully. The letters had reached their final destinations.

The scorpion walked on and so did the man, but not before giving a last salute to a newfound friend. Memories journey with the feet and mind.

Afternoon followed morning, and night arrived soon afterwards. Footsteps followed one another closely, as the man journeyed on under barbarous sun, the desert reflecting the sun's incandescent light. It was all a continuing benediction and mirage.

The man puzzled, pondered: "When does the desert end and life begin?" Sun - sky - shifting sands... Had it all become a monotony?

He took a drink of water. Poured a little out for the scorpion down below... and continued forward.

"There is no end to the beginning and no beginning to the end. You're just placed somewhere in between on your life's journey," whispered the desert to him.

"The desert is a sweet lady..." the man thought, "the sand is her blood."

"Shhhh! Quiet your thoughts!" The desert raised a finger to her lips, "We are Hecate's child and more mysteries will be revealed in time. Indeed they will."

Truly, what man could resist such an invitation?

Not him, as he reached down in to womb of the desert and pulled out twins, two handfuls of sand. He juggled a thousand sand grains at a time, until all was gone. Back to the mother desert, back to the womb they retreated.

He tied his boots to the back of his pack.
He would make this, the end of his journey, barefoot. It was just sand after all, between him and his final destination, wherever that may be.

"More of a connection to the desert this way," the man thought. "We will always be rooted to the earth, until death do us part." Sinking down, the sand was warm to his feet's touch but not achingly so.

God rested on the Seventh Day but for the man there would be no pause. Dusk was approaching soon and the man stumbled down one last dune, sand and his feet slipping away.

Behold a pale horse for the rider is Mars, god of war... The man questioned whether his eyes were deceiving him. For out in the near distance, about 100 feet away, sandwiched in the middle of a small valley, was what looked like an old railroad car. A caboose to be exact. Red, solid steel, he estimated it to be about 25 feet long and 10 feet wide. Its most distinguishing feature was a lovely cupola, which imbued it with a young girl's toy dollhouse euvre.

The muse and muses run their fingers through the web of human events, the thread of lives so constructed. But he was not a poet and he wasn't sure it wasn't a mirage.  "Maybe my eyes are deceiving me?" The thought echoed around his questioning mind.

He found a split rock on the desert floor, one of the few he encountered during his sojurn, and chucked it with force against the caboose.

"Clangggggg!" it echoed back, reverberating against the desert stillness.

"IT'S REAL!" he exclaimed with surprise.

He made it a point to observe the object in greater detail. He discerned age spots and wear, rust and erosion, but it actually appeared to be in good shape for its age. Though he noticed that the wind had grown stronger, the closer he approached the caboose, pushing back against him, making it difficult to walk onward.

Then something very strange happened. He heard faint cries and moans coming from the railroad car.

"Could it be a hurt animal..." he asked himself, "perhaps a wild cat?" Or incredibly, there was someone this far out in the desert. He called out, "Is anyone there and do you need help?"

The only answer was more sorrowful cries and moans. He debated whether to continue towards the caboose, but his curiosity got the better of him and he edged closer.

And the winds buffeted him stronger and more viciously the nearer he came, until he was pushed back and held at a standstill, still a ways away. He realized he would be allowed no closer. The cries and moans meanwhile had become deafening, a woman's voice to be sure, lifted higher and higher. as it had to be, to be heard over the howling wind.

And then a shot rang out, loud and clear, the taste of gunpowder in the air. The man was shocked beyond all means! And the winds fury abated to stillness, while the desert and rail car went silent.

And gently laid down by the wind at the man's feet, in a promise to the past, were three paper plackards, a little bigger in size than index cards, separately marked with black numerals: 15 - 17 - 19.

He carefully picked the numbers up, folded them in half, and placed them inside his shirt pocket.

And a woman's voice, softly and nostalgic inside his head, told him: "Remember."

And indeed he would...

Image Credit: https://www.etsy.com/listing/166739834/sand-dunes-desert-art-southwest