Eye of Saffiyah |✔️

3

I place the flowers back into the soil and pat them. Once I am sure they are stable, I move onto a budding family of bell-shaped angelblooms. I repeat the process again. Pick it up by the roots, mix the soil underneath, and ensure that the plant is healthy before placing it back. 

I like the physical effort that gardening requires, and often lose myself in the continuous rhythm of labour as the desert sun shines above. I enjoy smelling the sweet fragrance of my flowers and feeling the rich silt sift through my fingers. What is most rewarding is at the end, when I have tended my garden for the day and all that is left to do is watch. Watch as days and months cultivating delicate saplings amount to the brightest fruits and flowers. It leaves me with a feeling that no words will ever be able to describe.

I stand up and lean into a neighbouring joshua tree. Running my fingers down its trunk, I survey the scenery before me.

The well-tended shrubs form a natural perimeter around the garden. In each of the four corners stands a mature joshua tree, two of which that flank the fortress' sides. Pebbles of all shapes and sizes lay scattered among small vegetation and flowers. A silt road navigates through the garden, diverging into two paths to make way for the center flowerbed. And although I like to think I give each plant an equal amount of attention, I cannot deny I have a soft spot for that particular flowerbed.

Every year, I take the seeds of the old flowers and preserve them. It took a scorching summer scouring the desert's plains to find the flowers, but it was worth it. This spring,  lillies, orchids, poppies and every flower that could be found in the Swift Desert are flourishing beneath the radiant sun. I have planted the seeds in such a way that each group of flowers would grow into the figure of a flying swift. The hundred or so swifts are facing east, towards the direction of guidance and new beginnings. I have shaped the flock into the figure of a larger swift as a final touch. They are individuals, but together they are one.

A sharp yipping reaches my ears. I turn around to find Harun and Hura snapping at each other over a fig. Hura sprints up to me and hides behind my legs, whining.

I raise a brow at Hura, whose lips merely pull back into a grin. She swallows her fig in one gulp as Harun catches up. He tackles her to the ground. The siblings roll around as they play-fight.

I separate the two by their cuffs. Hura whines in defeat and Harun paws at my hand, but they both comply. "I hope you are not fighting over the fig," I say, "because there is enough for all of us." One only needs to look at the mess hall for proof. Harun huffs. I shrug. Sibling rivalry it is, then. I release them.

Hura instantly dashes away, jumping over the swift flowerbed and disappearing behind the fortress. Harun looks at me.

"Very well," I sigh. I proceed to follow Hura's pawprints to the back of the fortress. Along the way, I run my hand along the Home's worn walls, which are well polished from the persisting desert winds. I turn the corner to see a blur of caramel before it knocks me to the ground.

I lift Hura off of myself, but not before she finishes washing my face. "Now, there," I chuckle. I pat her glossy fur, which has recovered after a week thanks to a proper diet. Satisfied with her ambush, Hura trots to the grass field and picks up a stick. 

Of course.

She gives me the stick. "Be prepared," I say with a smile. The jackals tense. 

My wrist flicks and sends the stick flying across the field. 

Hura steps forward, but Harun bounds ahead and seizes the stick with his jaws. He saunters back, his tail swishing as he goes. Hura whimpers, disappointed.