The Trail between Skies and Seas

Part 1 - In the Dunes, the Sand Foxes hide

A succession of repetitive movements. What pulling water out of a well was. The type of work to dumb one down. To numb one down. Just that it was not working very well, was it?

He could still distinctly feel every ray of sun bite into the skin of his back. The pain made him wonder whether blisters had appeared down the nape of his neck and over each and every one of his vertebras. Exempting the flaying scars to be found here and there. Exempting them from pain if not from damage.

The slave was tiring already. He had lost his rhythm. His jerky movements led to half the water being lost back into the well. So thought all the women surrounding him. Some were seated at the edge of the well, others stood by his side, supervising his work. All were viciously disposed towards him. All had come with demands to be met and jugs to be filled. They knew this was their only chance to replenish their water reserves. No one would be allowed to set foot outside once the sands broke into a tempest. Since it was impossible to guess how long the disturbance would last, having enough water-filled pitchers was a question of survival. And a way to avoid punishment at the hands of masters and husbands.

The fear at the idea of punishment rendered the atmosphere heavy with urgency, suffocating their little congregation. It only made them all the more insistent to be served.

But, truth be said, they used their demands to approach the dark-skinned slave. And possess, for the time of a haughty order, what was beyond their reach. He was their lord's, after all. And the lowly always desire what their masters own. It was in the order of things.

So, they clicked their tongues at the strong muscles rolling under his skin. Their brown eyes flashed in contempt as he poured water from the bucket into the jugs. Their fingers found ways to brush against his wrist. And when the women felt his warm flesh against theirs, they retracted jerkily, as if he had offered them violence. Losing some of that precious water.

Son of darkness, beast of burden. He would suffer their anger at their own skin being the color of their earthenware. He would suffer their envy, their servitude, their base desires. And he did.

When the females came to him to quench their thirst, he welcomed them. And he tired from it quicker than they did. When the males came to chastise him, he let them. And their muscles hurt more than his bones.

What he bore less well was the exhaustion that come from pulling water out of a well in unbearable desert heat. The lord had not required his services, knowing full well he was being victimized by the villagers once again. Knowing full well that what truly hurt the slave was the humiliation.

Making a slave out of a master had been a scheme worthy of one of them Kings. The Šarru were renowned for their wit and their games of power. Enslaving the great and elevating the lowly was their way of sowing discord among the Amēlu, poor, stupid creatures inhabiting the Middle Land. To sow discord and take what taken could be was what the Šarru lived for. They had deigned descend from the Skies and claim the human world as theirs. Now, serve and suffer, Amēlu! Bow, Humans. Lick their holy feet, as white as eastern cotton.

The slave's jaw contracted in a hateful spasm. Slamming his foot against the well's cobblestone wall, he did not even register the burn that spread through his tender sole. Stone was always hottest at that time of the day. Sore muscles contracted in a movement of anger. His spine arched back. The rope between his fingers slid against his palm, drawing blood. Droplets of water escaped the well, flying up in the air. He'd jerked the bucket out too violently. The ladies got soaked. And the slave got punished by their irksome squeals of displeasure.

He however enjoyed the relieving sensation of water on his shoulders and neck. His eyes closed, a shaky breath filtered through lips while the rope slipped from his grasp. The females cursed at him. Spat to the ground, too fearful to aim for his face. He would have done them no harm had they acted on their desire. There was no strength left in that tightly wound body. His great animal spirits went into dormancy. Even the enslaved had a breaking point that should not be crossed if they were to be kept alive and working.

The oppressing heat of the desert was killing him. Dry and ensnaring. He was a luscious plant of the rainforest, not a lone strand of dried-out grass helplessly swaying in the breeze.

If he strained his power of imagination, he could picture his pestilent sweat to be the moist embrace of a jungle's suffocating warmth. There, in his land of greenery, birds and beasts, the heat had never made him suffer. In fact, it had strangely reminded him of the kisses of a wanton woman, taking him with violence, submitting him to her feet. Their women had been like their forests: juicy, welcoming and wet. Their ebony skin glistening with the kisses of a lover.

Nothing like the appalling dirt-skinned females of the desert. And yet, this miserable slave was called upon to service them whenever they pleased. Every no and then, their hands would shoot out from the darkness of their tents and drag him into a frightening world of pain and desire. Here, amassed together, they scorned and slandered him. But at night, these same women pursued him, waking him from his sleep and begging for his domination over them. Strange females who wanted to be taken for a safe walk to the dark side.

As he panted, trying to push back the tears threatening to break free, a wave of cold water hit him. The feistiest of the females had found a most efficient way to attract his attention back to the task.

"Stupid slave! How long will you keep us waiting?! Get the water, you lazy beast. And be careful not to waste a drop or I will have you flogged to death."

As if she had the power to.

That is what he had become. Wardu. Slave. How long had it been since he had heard his name on someone's lips? He did not dare speak him himself. Not that he could remember it, anyways.

His muscles had been torn into pieces from the effort, yet he bent over to retrieve the bucket at his feet. His spine cracked ominously. The bones were reaching their limit, his body told him. He would be stiff the next day, if the heat did not kill him by then. Throwing the pail back into the well, his eyes found the brown blood marks he had left on the rope. His hands had been skinned raw.

The slave braced himself for more pain. Frowning and grinding his teeth, he went for another round, the one that would finally break him.

However, he should have thanked his lucky star. Whenever he was about to reach utter desperation, she appeared. This time was no different. It was as if she could read thoughts. He knew her too well to believe it to be so.

If the sound of metal ornaments clinking one against the other had not been enough to announce her arrival, the frightened gasps escaping the women were good enough an indication that she had come.

They had been swarming, hoarding, suffocating him in the stench of their sweat and heavy perfumes. But as soon as a stronger contender for his attention appeared, they cowered like dogs. Immediately bowing. Coming to lick at the corner of the leading bitch's mouth.

"Nemru."

The people of the sands attached small bones on a string and fixed them at the entrance of their tents. When the desert winds were about to break into a fit, the soft tinkling of bones would inform the inhabitants that danger was coming their way.

Such was her voice. A sinister, albeit soft, omen.

He looked up into the skies. They had turned red. Of the same red as the gashes on his palm. The sun was still shining. It would not last for long.

The Halāqu were breaking through the seas at that very moment, he knew. Washing ashore with their weapons and horses. He had seen them do it, the people of the Seas. They were coming.