Farkham looked up at the light blue sky. The sun was low, just above the horizon, barely peeking through over the sand dunes, but the rays that managed the ridge were blindingly hot. Squinting, he used the back of his hand to wipe his face, smudging the sweat and dirt and dust into a paste across his sunburnt forehead. His once-white turban and loincloth were now tattered, covered in stains of gray and brown, but he didn’t care. He was almost there.
He could feel it.
The goddess appeared two nights before, and assured him he’s on the right path. Her shining, white-blue form was calming, reassuring, as she appeared through the night and glided towards his little camp for the night. Silently – she never spoke – she reached out and touched his face with palms that were at once cool and warm, soothing like a nice breeze on a hot day. Once again they entangled their bodies together on the sand, and Farkham’s fear and doubt were expelled from him. He’s on the right path. He’s almost there.
He can feel it.
Readjusting the heavy bundle on his back, Farkham huffed and started on his way once again, calculating that he probably had maybe two more hours of sunlight. Should he keep walking through the night, or make camp and reach the pyramid the next day? He resolved that he was too close to rest now, and decided to press on. No goddess tonight, but come the morrow they would be together forever. The thought strengthened his resolve to reach the famed mystical pyramid, and he kept going well after midnight.
The full moon was high in the sky when at last, once he crested a high dune, Farkham saw it. The pyramid lay there amongst the sand, and even though the moon played with his vision, he knew that the pyramid was blue. He had never seen it before, but at that moment he knew all about it: how in the day it seemed to merge with the sky, how it only showed up each full moon, how it was built to imprison the spirits of the land, how to get in, where to go inside it, every nook and every cranny and every stone that made it up. He saw in his head the mages building it, centuries ago, he saw spirits cry out in pain when they were drawn to it, he saw cells and pained faces locked in a scream, he saw heroes die in search of the pyramid, claimed by the desert, he saw villains covet its power and grandfathers telling the story to their descendants around fires. In that instant, he knew everything.
The knowledge shook him. He brought his hand to his forehead, then swayed and stumbled, his already frail body worn by the desert. A sense of joy and anticipation more intense than before filled him, and once again he pressed on. Scrambling down the sand dune he reached the foot of the pyramid, almost in a run.
He didn’t have to look for the entrance. He walked around the corner, right up to a spot on the wall. He stared for a couple of seconds and spoke for the first time in ages:
“Here” was the only word he said, and it sounded painful through his dry, rough throat. He grabbed his bundle. Knowing fingers shuffled around, pushing aside swaths of cloth, little wooden boxes of spices and herbs (though he hadn’t much use of them in the desert) and other knick-knacks. He found the parcel he was looking for.
It was nearly as long as his forearm, and it looked like a bundle of fabric similar to the one his turban and his loincloth were made of, wrapped in string and tied at the top. Farkham carefully undid the knot and pulled away the dirty pieces of fabric, revealing a smooth sculpture made of the same blue material as the pyramid.
The item that had brought him here. The source of his happiness and hope, and at the same time the source of his fear and despair in potential failure.
It had the shape of what he thought was a woman, but a woman it was not, he knew now. The full breasts, small waist and round bottom, and the thin face with the delicate features attracted his attention nearly two years ago, while he was wandering the marketplace of an unnamed town. He didn’t pay much for it, the traders of the caravan didn’t even bargain the price he offered.
It was beautiful, he thought as he regarded it lovingly. At first he simply found it attractive, but over time he found himself enamoured by the figurine more and more, his thoughts flying to it more often as time went by. Gradually he went from glancing to its direction, to looking at it, to setting it in front of him and staring at it.
The first time it happened, he was frightened. He was tired that night, and he had started to drink earlier than usual. As the alcohol-induced stupor set in, his eyes turned heavy and he was unable to move. In the distance, a bright, white-blue figure appeared, and glided towards him. Farkham was very afraid and confused, sitting there helpless, tears streaming down his face, awaiting his death…but it never came.
What came instead was a sudden sense of sobriety as she came close, clarity and determination to do what was right…and desire. Searing-hot desire like the desert sun, and she was the only water that could sate his thirst. He squirmed and fought to get to her but he could not. She stood in front of him, regarding him, head tilted to one side as if with curiosity, not speaking – she never spoke.
A while later she decided she had watched enough, and walked away, her bright form slowly fading into the distance. Once she was out of sight, Farkham felt his muscles loosen and his body became his own once more, but the sense of determination lingered, along with a sense of urgency and emptiness.
He had to find her. He had to. Life would never be the same again.
It was as if a mania had taken over him. He tried more and more to get her to come to him. He would stare at the figurine more intently now, sober, all thoughts of alcohol and fatigue – and anything that reminded him of his past life – pushed away.
A week later she came back.
Oh the sense of joy he had then! How his body welcomed the helplessness! How he smiled and how his eyes teared up… and how he once again filled with desire. He didn’t try to coax her to come near him; he knew it would make no difference. Still, this time she only watched for a while. Then she finally walked up to him, and his heart was racing, his mouth was dry with anticipation, and as he finally felt her around him, his head emptied. There was nothing except her, except this moment, except her warmth and cool, her emptiness, her fulfilment. Slowly he felt his muscles loosen, and he reached his arms around her as she sat on top of him, and hugged her, feeling her fill his presence.
She started to come more often then. And every time she left, Farkham would die a little bit on the inside.
He had to find her…
She spoke to her, to the goddess. He told her how he wants to find her. She, in her wordless manner, guided him. Every step of the way she was with him. Though he couldn’t always see her, he knew she was there, urging him to move forward, leading his way.
And it all culminated into this moment, right now. The gravity of this instance weighed on him, and Farkham smiled, tears running down his face.
“Soon”, he said.
END OF PART I
The Cactus
The Creative Cactus 