By Michael Gryboski

Far from the known world, where the base of human reasoning prevails and powers of industry turn ground into cement and mountains into rectangular glass, there is a wasteland. Its gentle whisper hides its barren cruelty, mocked by those who come and go, aimlessly wondering through its borderless corridors, until the split second when they depart, falling upon the shifting ground, bodies perpendicular to the heavens above. Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are—are covered. There was hesitation, a stop as he charted his steps, never knowing the stability of that next space of the outermost layer of the giant sphere. His knowledge spent as his strength, this wanderer did not rule out the hypothesis that all the earth was nothing but sand, making one wrong step an eternal descent. There was little comfort when he saw more rocky ground, as it meant his journey though prolonged in life was more strident for him and his quadruped beast.

As the whispers of the winds would growl and occasionally assail with waves of sand, there was this lone traveler, not unlike thousands and thousands that went around that barren land. His age increased with every day, his hair and nails grew in slow but telling rates by the start of the next span of sunlight. He was average height, slightly below average weight, and in moderately good health. When he started so few corruptions had befallen him, his body was well fed and unfamiliar to task. He was the peak and dawning of his own civilization, the purest crop offered, the average of the population, who had been in luxury’s quarters for that duration of his life. The sandstorm’s battering and sun’s burning came later, as did the winter cold eventides and shortages of food and water. In this there was no one to comfort, no tender arms embracing, there was only him and his useless creature. “Or was it, Blest is he whose transgressions are forgiven, and whose sins are covered,” said aloud the man as he kept walking, having to muffle speech with a bandana due to sandy winds, striking to the point in which his unprotected cheeks hurt and had a new sandy layer, integrating with his stubby beard.

Was there any reason for him to be out there, deprived of the beauties so indulging and so omnipresent where his past rested in oblivion? Upon that plain there were but shades of yellow, shine, and gold, gravelly to the touch as the core elements charged in avian fury at all who entered their dominion. Alone, solitude of the weary speck of darkened leather and boots, occasionally removed so as to expel invading grains, with cloth covering the body so vulnerable to the wilds tamed by his fellow citizens of mankind. The storm felt harder than before as he went onward, but then again for him each present tempest fed by the dunes was more violent than the tempest before, regardless of any objective scale. Having little preparation for this world he entered, the man pulled up the lowering bandana to inhibit more grains from entering his lungs via the nostrils, his mouth pushing the bandana outward as his body attempted to purge itself of what elements of the storm had successfully entered through his nasal passageways as well as between the two scarred lips. Early in the uncharted day and already they bled.

The tide was rising, making his eyes hurt more. He closed them yet again, trusting nothing as he walked blindly with continual battering by the hostile dunes, unwilling to give him succor in their emptiness. Could nature hold the human trait of selfish greed? All the vastness in all cardinal directions and still no peace for the weary. Lacking peace was not all that characterized the vacant, with no law, no cities, no villages, and so little life that one had to ponder whether the biotic held any chance of a future. The ground was gaining height for each step was harder to achieve, the pendulum movement of the typical two-legged journey was distorted in near-comical giant steps, each kicking up more sand that flew right into the chest of the man. Maybe this was the time, the moment in which the hypothesis was true and the world would finally swallow him whole. He feared it but saw nothing greater a purpose than to simply walk forward, into certain annihilation. Then he would be free from the constant burning and assault from the unforgiving world, the environment whose life lived in spite of the resources present.

If only sound manifested to the mind then it would be peaceful, the whisper of the winds so mellow to the ears. Like its antithesis the ocean tide, the sounds were as lullaby, some unexplainable assurance that all would be well, no harm would come through the night or during the day. It was puerile, it was foolish, the man knew this. Had walls existed and a nice bed wrapped in sheets did present itself, safety was not determined by sound. More than those days of succor, now he knew only danger when the calm monotone of the sandy breeze alerted his ears, covered by a hood that was tightly wrapped as though a kaffiyeh. Like the ocean it sounded, and as though waves the sands were trying to drown him as he slogged on, having to bear sore strength to raise even one leg at a time, concentrating on what was once so easy. The childlike state he so scoffed at as an intellectual, having to think about walking in order to accomplish it, was the reality of his situation as the storm did not let up, worse than the others he believed. The Man whose transgressions are forgiven…another step… and in whose spirit there is no deceit…now the other leg.

Again he had to stop. As though containing some cerebral capabilities, the sands pounded harder when he halted his advance. He turned away from the front as before and again looked at the beast he had to guide with bit and bridle, dragging him for what seemed to be the whole journey. A breath of frustration was taken, the bandana covering his annoyance over that lousy mule. For a time he could remember the name granted such a lower creature, enforced through constant usage demanding acquiescence. After several phases of the moon had passed, he had given up on using the appellation, feeling it served no purpose. “Come on, come on,” he said, drained of any compassion for the domesticated animal. When the refusal on the part of the quadruped had its first episodes his tone was more like that of a father to his only son, but the relation had since worn down. For better pull he wrapped his right arm around the rein and gripped it with his left as well, giving one good pull as his back now got flogged by the sands.

“Come on!” he said, hesitant to shout but with sympathy long since departed. He knew the animal had the ability to continue, maybe even to an extent greater than his own. This was blatant sedition and he would not stand for it, pulling another good tug and with that bit of enforcement got the mule to move again, albeit taking its usual placement behind him, a burden rather than a companion. “There are dogs smarter than that stupid mule,” he remarked aloud, without any to hear it but himself, perhaps hoping that in the sanded air some travelers were nearby and upon hearing him, would gather in community and stability. His anger towards his mule, loaded with the very few supplies he had for his aimless sojourn, made him nearly forget the troubles ahead, as his legs lifted out of more sand. Maybe his frustration was pitied by the tempest, or perchance it was coincidence; either way within several minutes of that last struggle to reassure the mule that his human master was still his master, the winds died down.

Many think this an advantage to take, as the weather showed its docile demeanor for these precious moments. Territory could be covered, the man had a chance to go farther and compensate for lost economy. Sore and beaten, he could not bear rising again. Sapped from the storm, the day was already half completed. “You want to stop now? Well that is what I want as well,” said the man to the mule, itself also beaten from the pummeling of sand, large quantities of which had remained on the carrying bags, making the load heavier than before. It was not compassion that led him to brush off bags and cases, kicking pounds of grains off the back of the animal; it was practicality. For when the mule dies the man dies. This was a grudgingly acknowledged realization he had had after his first really bad trials with his companion. As he sat on abiotic ground, water bottle in hand, he rubbed his pointer finger along his bottom lip, feeling the cracks and upon looking at the digit seeing thin streaks of blood. Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, he let his teeth bite at the dead skin on that lower lip, pulling away and by doing so periodically letting more blood. Cap in hand, he removed the hood he tightly wore letting fall to his upper back and looking to the apex of the cloudless sky, tilted the bottle and let water enter his parched throat. This moment of relief was very ephemeral, for the traveler knew not when the next oasis may be found, allotting temporary strength and leading to renewed thirst later on.

The mule was already sleeping, on the ground as the man was, weighed down by other bottles, some food, and clothing. During an unexpected windstorm some of his other items had been lost, mostly of a luxurious nature. His back hurt especially, pain that shot from his two legs like rivers had as their delta the lower spine. Cap on the bottle, the man refused to lie down just yet. His bones and tendons screamed for him to, but the mule still needed attention. Getting to his knees he crawled over to the sleeping beast and detached the saddle and bags, putting them to the side. He did not fear theft, for no human beings were in sight for miles. Only the sands could steal them, so he decided to place them closer to the mule, so that his hide could block the fiercer winds. Without pillow or sheet, still in the same set of clothes, the man merely removed his boots, handfuls of sand escaping as he held each one upside-down. The only provision he gave himself was to use one of his garments to cover his face, lest the sun burn it to embers while he slept. Anymore he could only stomach two meals a day, again fearing a total loss of supplies.

It was a sleep of blackness. None of the dreams that come to humans in sleep came to that man while he took his nap. Some experts in the field of cognition would counter that he did dream, but forgot those visions as he went from unconscious to conscious. This was not always so, as other days and nights when he lowered his vigilance to sleep there were sights. Echoes of home, the days and times he left there, the people who may or may not have made some impact. Did it really matter? He had asked himself on several occasions, on those nights when neither dreams nor sleep visited him. Significance was a word he had a hard time accepting, dissecting it with criticality and doubt, removing from it all essence of its fundamental declaration. A light nap, with some growing holes in his cover, sun waking him as its rays had finally penetrated through. He stirred some, giving testimony that he was not a corpse. That was a relief for the woman who arrived.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she said, her voice sounding as though she was to the point of crying. The once solitary man stirred some more, his consciousness now returned to its power and he removed the cover from his face to behold a young woman standing before him. She was a medium figure and as he got up he could tell she was shorter than him by several inches. Surprisingly, the woman did not have the scars of desert travel, with perfect lips and well-kept hair, which was long black and fashioned in a pony tail. He felt like a slob before her, his clothing in poorer condition and a good shave long forsaken. “Could you please help me find my way? I am lost, the storm took me away from my party and I do not know where they are.”

She had to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. At the very least, the most beautiful anything he had seen in a long time, having traversed the barren region seeing few traces of humanity. Only the occasional individual in the distance or the occasional corpse, the latter was more useful as the man could easily take from the departed’s belongings the goods needed to press on. “Sure, I shall do what I can,” he replied, knowing his ability to chart the vast surrounding the two found themselves in was far from the level of cartographer.

“Thank you very much. I feared trying to seek out my party alone, not knowing what evils exist in this space. Then I came across you; you have a trustworthy look about you,” said the beautiful stranger, which made the man curious since his visage had been covered when she first arrived. Suspicion was suspended for her, for he saw this visitor as a harmless attractive creature. The woman looked on as the wanderer gathered his things and tied them to his mule.

“I would let you ride the mule, but the stupid animal probably would throw you off,” he said, making a smile appear on the face of the woman. She stood at a relative distance as he gathered the bags and the saddle, the mule already awaken as though also attentive to the newcomer. He heaved the items onto the mule with some effort.

“Do you need any help? With those things of yours?” she asked, with a look of concern while the man struggled some with one of the heavier loads. What little of his earlier years the traveler could remember he noted that it was not the custom to have women perform manual labor but rather to look after the house. He could not find reasoning for this given the circumstances, but social norms however abandoned in the uninhabitable remained conscious in the mind.

“No, that is alright. I would hate to make you share in any undesirable labor. After all,” he said as he loaded the last bag, “this only looks fun.” She smiled again, showing a perfect smile without tarnish or gaps. Although his bones felt withered and ached often, from appearance it looked as though the woman and he were about the same age. “Where are your bags? I am sure that even this foul animal could carry them as well.”

“They are with my party,” she said. “All I have is what you see. To my shame, I do not even have any money to compensate your charity,” she added with sincere remorse, her head lowering to face the lifeless ground, some black strands falling in front of her face.

“That’s quite alright. Besides, money is not all that useful around here. Can’t pay the sand to take a day off storming can I?” he remarked lightly, which made her feel better. Gripping the reigns of the mule, he took a breath and they went off, walking side-by-side. “Do you have an idea as to where you last were with your party?” he asked with genuine concern.

“I’m not quite certain, but I want to say that way,” said she, pointing in front of them, not at any particular location given the monolithic landscape but rather something resembling a cardinal direction. Seeing no fault in this assumption, the man led his mule, which acted unusually submissive during this part of their journey. He was only too happy to have her company, for it seemed as though not even the sandstorms arrived with her nearby. He was more than happy to share his food and drink with her. If nothing else, the conversation was now more varied, making the travel far more bearable.

“Do you come from around here?” asked the male.

“Nothing comes from around here.”

“True, true. I guess I have been in this place so long I would not know of anything else.”

“You couldn’t possibly be from this wasteland. Where are your parents?”

“I do not know. I left the house a long time ago and have not kept in touch.”

“I understand that; there’s very little in the way of keeping contact with anyone here. I was once told that this is the place to disappear.”

“Maybe that is why I see so many lonely people in this wasteland, as you called it. They do not want to exist.”

“But that’s a contradiction. Why would anyone choose oblivion over existence? That can not possibly be a desirable fate.”

“It’s not desirable, rather inescapable. If oblivion is reality, then there is no other option but to accept it.”

“But what if oblivion is merely all that you behold? There’s always a chance that this end result you speak of is what you see, but not what is there. That didn’t come out right, I’m sorry,” she said, smiling some as she tried to rephrase it. The man smiled with her, as a way to show understanding but also because he liked her smile. That one attribute by itself was a mark of perfection that made him feel blessed to have met her.

“Ready to try again?”

“Yes. What I mean is this: take the skyline over there, where the sun is gradually creeping towards,” she said while pointing with an arm covered to the elbow by her attire. He did as he was commanded by his desired company. “Now...you see it correct?”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” he assured her.

“Now, from our vantage point as we walk along, we can see nothing other than more dunes. From our perspective there is nothing else.”

“Yes, I would say that you are correct. Nothing but sand, only desert,” replied the attentive male, who gripped the reigns a little harder with his right hand, urging the mule some as he noted it faintly lagging while the humans walked.

“However, this isn’t factually true. We both know that there are entire oceans of water, vibrant cities, and mountains that seem to penetrate the atmosphere itself. How could we acknowledge that as true if we merely look at our current perspective?”

“By believing it is there,” said he, tacitly acknowledging her point on the beyond. “Well then, looking from without our perspective, where is your party?”

“They should be near, I have not been lost for that long. I am thankful that given my station they have most likely started searching for me as I am for them.”

“What if they never find you?” he asked, but then noting her downward look at the thought, he added, “for then you shall have to suffer my company longer.” She smiled and even laughed this time; her laugh was almost as beautiful and perfect as her smile.

“Well, if that’s the worst thing to happen to me,” she said, touching him for the first time by gently holding his left arm, “then I’ll be more than alright.”

Afternoon was drawing away, withering into the past as they kept on, having endured only one minor breeze of sand and a single struggle with the much unappreciated mule, whose packhorse duties were less than preferred. The woman had found the ordeal humorous to the extent that the annoyed traveler also found it amusing. There was no way they could tell how far they had gone. It was feasible that the man, woman, and mule had gone in circles. Regardless, it was the woman, still searching for the searchers, still full of a purpose, who saw them over the horizon. There were a score of them, maybe more. For all the passage of days the man had not seen this many human beings in one location. The moment was a joyful one for the female companion.

“That’s them, that’s them!” she said, excited that she was nearly jumping, eyes widened. After looking at the party before them she turned to the man and embraced him, “thank you very much, I could not have found them without you. I owe you a lot.” She let go of him and continued, “There’s always a chance our paths will cross again.”

“Beyond the skyline of oblivion, perhaps,” he replied and with another perfect smile she went towards the party standing in the distance, close to their very location. He started thinking, though. She had made a valid point, there is something beyond the extent of the barren land. That unseen frontier is us, it has to be. Together we are perfect, in spite of myself. Knowing his mule to be a slow creature, he dropped the reigns, the leathery strands impacting the ground and dispersing sands as though a comet hitting a continent. He jogged across the dip of the dune, kicking the sands up as she walked towards the riders before them both. Some of them now knew of two people being in their midst and they started for them. He got to her side and she noticed him, somewhat surprised to see their paths cross so expediently.

“Well, hello,” she said as she continued to walk towards the riders.

“Just wanted to make sure this was the right party,” he lied.

“Thank you for your care. I guess while you are here I shall get some supplies for you. Your search hasn’t ended.”

“Maybe it has,” he said, barely audible to his female company. The apparent leader of the party was a dashing young man, his eye and hair were hues different from that of the woman. She now looked at him and smiled at him, and he steadied his horse so that she could mount it without trouble. They kissed and looked at each other intimately for a moment until the woman returned her attention to the man who accompanied her there.

“I was so worried about you,” the rider said to her.

“I was in good hands,” she replied, pointing to the traveler. “My dear husband, this man aided me in finding you. Had it not been for his selfless service I might have never found you.”

“Stranger, for your act of kindness I shall be more than happy to reward you.”

“Only some supplies for my long journey shall suffice, sir,” said the heartbroken man. Thinking a moment the oblivious husband replied:

“On second thought, given the roughness of the terrain and the nefarious figures who do wander around, it might be optimum for you to join our party. That way, you would get security and we could get your experience in desert sojourning.”

“I respectfully decline this offer, sir, for my journey must be taken in solitude. My apologies for not realizing that until now. But thank you for the supplies.”

Hours passed, another day used up by the continual passage of the ages. The sun made its cyclical motion once more, ending up on the other side of the world. As his mule slept, the man was cold. He had to put on another layer, assuming he was not required to wear all he wore that day to bed. He used the sleeping mule as a pillow. His stomach gave him less trouble, for he had a decent meal courtesy a lost love. His chasing of that woman was as pointless as his chasing nothing. Even as he looked at the stars, and a red one that was suspended north of the celestial equator, he knew she was right. There was something that surpassed the aimlessness and desolation of the wasteland. He had been going around, assuming his direction to be a straight line but with each sand grain laden tempest never knowing for sure. It was not her, but something else that was more than what was known to his vantage point. With a destination, he felt better as he fell asleep.

Daylight and a breakfast, humble to the elitist but sufficient for most moans of hunger, his mule receiving its share as well. Already in full clothing, he went again unto his daily constitution yet different from the genesis of the previous day. Now he looked for something, perchance hidden by endless barren grounds. Blessed—blessed is he whose sins are forgiven—and—and whose sin is covered, no I said it wrong again, it is really Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, and whose sin is covered, and blessed is the man—and then he stopped in this thought pattern, partly because he had forgotten still more of the Psalm and mainly because the mule had suddenly halted and the expedience in velocity change had actually thrown him to the ground. Landing on both knees, the pants that covered them were themselves given a gilded layer. Had the wretched creature not been essential in carrying supplies it was possible the man would have beaten him surely, holding his right hand in fisted formation above the mule. But he relented, remarking in controlled anger “it would be better to deprive you of breakfast, then you will appreciate my company.” Upon turning around the man saw the very reason why the mule suddenly halted.

With desolate flat land all around it, a great monument was before the mule and his irate owner. It was from a distance, marble in composition, darkened by fury and imposing in its stature. The traveler was looking at a great object cast in the image of man, a specific man it appeared. He was in uniform, muscular, and with his left hand had a palm unwaveringly raised in salute. A stern countenance, his eyes looked in every direction at once and his ears were attuned to every sound made in the desert. Beneath the cylindrical column he was perched upon the sands were darker than the rest of the wasteland, a brown to red color scale. To the traveler’s eye it was as though the statue and especially its pedestal of power had crushed something, someone, or given its size some people. His mule still transfixed upon the monument, the traveler got closer. It was a terrifying monument, the authoritarian grip that one marbled human being had on that stretch of dune was intimidating, perhaps against the common good. But the man did not care, he looked at that giant and saw order, an order that however hard and crushing was still preferable to no order at all. The latter of those two options had been the centerpiece of his agony.

Have I found it? He wondered. Is this what I have been longing for since I entered this forsaken region? He was one hundred paces away and still the marbled man was in detail, with medals aligning his left breast pocket and an oft used sword hanging to his right side, the tip of the blade nearly touching the pedestal, parallel to the boot-covered feet. As he got to about eighty paces the man noticed the posture of the lower body, his legs position in a manner that made the marble monument appear to be stomping upon the pedestal, which in turn further crushed the sands beneath, making the light gilded ground turn to shades of crimson. Nearing the statue his head started to angle upwards, the angle became more obtuse as he further appreciated how colossal the marble monument was. In this he believed he had stability.

As the man got to fifty paces his walking halted near as hastily as his mule’s, whose weary quadruped body, weighed down by supplies, remained where it had stopped. Screams had scared him; they came from beneath the pedestal. They were not bloodcurdling; there was no hint of phantasms desiring entrance to the underworld. Rather these were cries of outrage, able to be understood regardless of the tongue. They got louder, louder still as more screams added to the chorus of rebellion and then the stability the man so assumed to be firmly established was not so. Like an earthquake ripping apart the crust of the planetary sphere, the pedestal began to growl, to rumble, and then cracks developed along its sides. All this occurred while the screams continued, making the witness tremble some at his post of fifty paces. The cracks were chipping away at the pedestal the monument was perched upon, with the whole dune around him grumbling as though speaking in solidarity with the screams below the fractured pedestal.

Then it happened, the final blow or as it were series of blows. Starting at each booted leg, bright and fast explosions hit on both sides of the statue, with the first being at the ankles and then another set at the lower shin, another at midway up the femurs, then another set at the kneecaps, and so on in proper measurements. In quick rapid succession the explosions moved up the body, going towards the outstretched arm and the stern countenance. The last two sets of explosions hit the ears and for the outstretched arm in salute the carpal. In another moment, a second too epic to track the event, like a curtain descending the whole monument imploded, destroying the fractured pedestal and ending the screams. The man covered his eyes instinctively as the thin cloud of sand and dust spread outwards; hitting him lightly compared to many of the storms he had endured. With great shock he looked upon what was once so great and then saw nothing but chunks of marble, some large enough to be of protective value come the next major tempest. Sure enough by the time lunch, a small snack, was eaten, another blazing storm came in and made the marble useful for both the man and his beast, shielding them from the blast.

He remained there until eventide, feeling distress over the calamitous happenings of the day. Since he did not expel as much energy that day as in days passed and since he did not endure the brunt of unforgiving tempests as before, his nutritional needs were not as great. His usual quasi-satisfactory meal filled him for a change and he slept deeply. Before that he felt obligated to gaze at the solar bodies above him. His favorite of the massive figures of the vacuum was that red star. He knew not its name, but he knew it was gigantic, strong, and physically able to control all that was around it. The influence of that red body, great enough to burn away even the very star that dominated his system, was something the man aspired to emulate. It was a model, a deity to adhere to in ritual and practice. It was a counselor in determining many things, including what courses to take in the long journey ahead. If all else failed in his search for the beyond of the desert, he knew he would find that star every night. Even as his legs would often feel sore from his sojourns and his bones, lacking the proper dairy products for sustainability, were withering away he knew that red star was a long-standing bulwark against all entropy.

He awoke to sounds before the blistering sun could further peel at his flesh. Eyelids in a feat of strength were lifting up to reveal the outside world. It sounded like things were falling. He heard a bottle drop to the ground lightly and then something that sounded like another bottle smash into it, releasing what could have been a week’s worth of liquid. As soon as one lid lifted high enough for him to see his untied mule leaving him, he realized that he had accidentally forgotten to remove the water bottles and some other bags from the back of that packhorse. Adrenaline empowered him to get up immediately and he ran after the mule, which walked faster than he appreciated. When I’m not at the helm, then he makes an effort to move fast, he thought as he eventually made it to where the mule was, grabbing the reigns from behind and then circling to the front of the beast that seemed to be domesticated in name only. This was going to be different from before; he had decided that nothing was going to stop him from corporally punishing that wretched beast, whose lack of understanding was telling with each transgression.

Again he raised his right hand ready to strike the face of the mule and again his curiosity as to what his mule was beholding behind him made his hand be stayed and his anger subside. When he was moving to the edge of the dune the man had assumed the giant rough gilded feature ahead was nothing more than another dune, some great amount of the barren’s grain awaiting the next powerful winds to be taken as a tsunami to blast all who were near. He looked a second time and realized the sandy dune was far off and was something he had not seen in all his experience as a desert traveler: triangular. In fact it was a perfect triangle, its foundation having four corners that perfectly matched north, south, east, and west. The very apex looked to be a perfect point, each side streamlined and in good geometric order. This was more than a monument. It was only a shape, but the shape was so well cut, so well made and above all so large. From what the man could gather, it had to have been able to fit a score or more monuments within its frame and still have room. He still entertained the lighthearted notion that twenty other statues like the one destroyed existed within the massive sand-hued triangle, like trophies in a box in the attic.

He waited at first, getting the supplies already loosely bound to the mule secured and then going back several paces to the rest of the supplies, which were found amongst the ruins of the monument. Taking what was needed, he tied the bags and food and drink to the hide of the mule, whose bit and bridle remained attached. Even as he toiled at his mandated activities the great structure ahead continually caught his eye. How marvelous the civilization that constructed that edifice. Why then do I attempt to recall mere poetry to summon aid whilst the rest of humanity does something with their strength? Making sure the unused saddle was as firmly placed on the back of the packhorse as the rest of the supplies, the man took hold of the leathery sandy reigns, again doused with grains from being dragged by the animal, and headed for the massive edifice. His steps being careful as he descended the uneven edge of one dune, his mule was close behind not because of any expended extra effort but rather because of gravity, a law found even there.

When the ground again became level, he appreciated even more the sheer size of the three-dimensional triangle before him. How imposing, how magnificent is this shaped structure; how many legions were brought as one race to think, craft, lift, and carve this awesome thing. He wondered how many of those who partook in the great achievement ahead were buried and how many still walked among the living. There must have been a city, maybe a kingdom, not far from that very location. A city meant life, life meant habitation, and habitation meant succor. It was a sound reasoning, leaping from one point to the next, as the giant feature gained in size with each step forward. Less of the aqua sky could hold dominion as the man neared the gilded sand hue of the massive structure. Perplexing over what exactly the edifice was meant for did not prevent him from gaining proximity; he viewed this as something to be resolved later.

Details emerged, with each brick, minimal en ratio to the whole, but great in size and tonnage en ratio to the commoner, becoming illuminated with perspective. Like cells in a great body, each performed its life function, composing the great and powerful four-sided triangle, whose base alone had to be the scope of a city. How many villas could fit with safety under the canopy of that massive collection of components, the essential elemental comprising the great essential? This was more than an oversized object: it was human achievement beyond the conventional, the normal, or even the acceptable. Flaws began to appear as the traveler, filled with hope, walked closer to the object pointing to the Polaris star. Poorly cut bricks unevenly distributed all along the western side, which was by now the only visible portion of the triangle. He was overwhelmed, maybe in a dangerous way as his mule halted in fear, forcing him to stop his movement. In anger he turned to the mule, ready to finally bruise the stubborn animal.

Rumbling, not screaming, roared over the man and his creature. The mule was turning around, groaning as he wrestled with his reigns, the bit and bridle fastened and pulled on by his master. Was it another tempest offered by the forsaken land? Porous waves rose and drifted like low flying clouds in every direction, hurting the unprotected eyes of the man, whose struggle with the packhorse was in vain in spite of the equipment. Letting the leather strap go, the mule turned back towards the dune they descended from; the animal was followed by the man, who backed away as he realized what was happening, albeit still fascinated by the shape. Bricks of impressive tonnage fell as leaves from a deciduous during the appointed season as the traveler panicked, turning away from the great edifice he so adored, avoiding the crushing of the departing bricks, same hue as the ground impacted, cutting through the heavens as they plummeted unto the barren land, surpassing the lowest levels in their entombment below the sands.

Swallowing and swallowing, the painful echoes flooded his ears as the sand now pushed to fill the growing vacancy behind him, periodically colliding with his chest head and rushing legs, only to keep flying as they dispersed across his worn withered body. Sore from the struggle, he now feared the very sight so loved, closing his eyes, going to the lifted dune, whose fury added to his plight, fleeing the wicked condemned behind him. It was built and so it stood, it endured until its appointed moment, resisting by its force of tonnage, sands smashing away entire bricks, killing the cells as the man was ephemerally blinded by the chaos. His sweat inducing labors had not been pointless, for the smashing and crushing was behind him, the ferocity of the absorption got more lenient, with sand flowing like a mighty river, a shiny deluge which was gathering along his lower body, filling his boots with unprecedented haste. With one last valiant thrust, he flew through the lowest level of sky and landed past the upper end of the dune. There chest having hit the grained ground, his head lifted to see a calm and standing mule.

He got to his feet and turned to see nothing in the heavens as before. Soreness was trite for him, so he bothered not in wasting the effort to deal with it. The sands had again stopped, no more living than the marble ruins of the monument to which he again had retreated to. Abiotic were the sands and the marble, feeling nothing as the lack of calcium in his diet produced a weak frame for the man, deciding while still conscious to investigate. He went down the route as before, the mule still behind him with the distance increasing since he did not seek its company. No achievement was there before him, with no greatness nor any sort of magnificence. Stunned and close to developing a lachrymose face, the man saw none of that great detail and collection of bricks laid by human muscle. Neither were there any signs of the intellectual framework, the great imposing will of the human spirit. He walked amongst tossed bricks, whose discarding had been sudden painful and in the end looked much like the marble behind him.

He walked on, wondering where the base was now, why no trace of the firm foundation remained at the site. It took him long enough, while his mule gained an extra rest from his absence, to realize that neither the ruins before him nor the ruins with him had any such foundation. Instead they relied on their greatness, their oppression, and their encompassing and alluring presence, summoning worshippers from all the uttermost ends of the desert quarter. At the epicenter of the once magnificent was an insult to all he had beheld. On the civilization whose glory seemed everlasting, contrary to entropy, outside of oblivion, and yet before him was nothing. In the center of the devastation there was a single, faint, fading reminder of what stood so proudly and begged his drawing near: no higher than to his kneecaps, themselves wobbly from wear because of the long journey in circles, there was the very pointed tip of the triangular structure. It mocked its former presence to such an extent that the man, weary from disappointment and travel, angry at failure, took his left leg still covered in a boot holding as much sand as flesh, and violently kicked at the remnant until nothing stood.

Nighttime the stars alone offering luminescence as the sphere has turned this face from the glory of the sun. Away from glory, far from the marble ruins and disgraced by the weighty bricks so thrown from their placement high above, the man laid his head upon the brownish hide of the mule, having a view constantly adjusted by each lift caused by the inhalation of the packhorse. His boots were off tonight, taken off and placed not far from himself, the openings for both facing upwards. This was a meticulous decision based off of experience, for early in his journey youthful foolishness did not warn him of eventide storms, whose shallow waves nonetheless would fill his shoes with countless grains. As though another dimension traversed, maybe a dream alone, the man remembered a location and era when he would discard his boots and they would be taken by an inferior. He pondered in thought how inferior the stronger more appropriately clothed man really was to him, whose skin scarred so easily and hardened only after constant exposure.

Every night he took refuge in the heavens, especially that one beautiful scarlet dot north of the celestial equator. The massive pull and influence, power so distant from his own, and yet he longed for it as any human being. With his weary eyes he gazed upwards to find the object of affection, a presence that would outlast himself, the woman he lusted after, and the husband who was rightfully part of her life. They would all slip off the plate of existence, dropping onto the floor of annihilation never to be picked by those to whom eternity visited. That red dot, so distant yet great in diameter than one million monuments and edifices combined, was what he was looking for. It seemed so obvious that nature would outlast all things. “I looked for the works of man for refuge, when I could have simply looked to the creation,” he said, speaking only to the desolate dry air and the worn mule, whose strength was as eroded as his due to the search.

Yet as his eyes glossed over the vast array, he saw only the other vast bodies of stars. Something is not right. His vision noted the usual scattering of insignificance, whose glows were all uniform. It can’t be. It can’t be. In desperation his eyes widened, expanding the search for the one emblem of hope he still retained whilst the remainder of his body tried to recuperate from the wondering around in desert and dune. When this did not discover the red beauty he fixated his last conscious minutes to, his rationale lost reason while he directed his two eyes to the southern portion of the night sky, beneath the great invisible line of the celestial equator. He knew that it would not be there, but it was nowhere else in the very eternal existence he so bestowed upon it. Painfully his worn bones pulled his fleshy morph to a mostly upright position as he looked more, having no order to his charting of the black heavens pockmarked by hydrogen and helium burning fiercely. As though his life was in peril he pushed his sore muscles away from rest altogether and bent his neck more to see all he could of the domed view of the skies. Then he knew.

“Not even nature can last forever,” he said, mercifully bending his neck to have his eyes look towards the ground, this view itself blocked by two rough hands. He attempted to resist crying, fearing his body could not afford liquid loss in light of fewer supplies. The mule stirred, raising only its head, still with the bridle attached, to look as though with pity upon an aged man, lost in the desert, with all hope having been destroyed in supernova. The dam broke, the tears fell, and his weak frame collapsed to the ground, giving in to sleep. If he were to have ended his consciousness then his fear of survival and continual journey would have ended there as well. His longest errand into wasteland would end with him collapsing in darkness.

It was a combination of sunlight beams striking his bearded face and the ominous rumble from afar of another sandstorm descending that revived the broken man. His eyelids varying in hue from pink to red, rivers of red lines along the white surface of each eye, and trace amounts of sand having entered the forest of his hair, he got up for the day. There would be no breakfast, as he knew his supplies had suffered in their amount. Living on paucity, he would be fortunate to be greedy enough to enjoy a petty afternoon meal. Holding his boots upside down and shaking each to be safe as to how much of the environment had crept in, he put his shoes on, put on his jacket and gloves so as to inhibit the brutal measures the sun placed upon exposed skin, and gathered his few belongings and tied them to the standing mule. Wrapping the reign around his left hand, he gave a light pull to coax the mule to follow him through the storm, which came at expedience to his very location. The only way to resist was go through it, lest it settle to bury alive the animal and its master, both already beaten by the hopeless vacuum around them.

Having no remembrance of every storm to have reaped its havoc upon his frame, there was no way to objectively ascribe a title like the worst tempest he hath endured in his life entire. However, subjectively it could be agreed that this had to be one of the worst. Air became solid, pounding every cell in his body, punching his clothing to the point where even the toughest leather was shaped as though having the composition of warm clay. The whispers that calmed the ears when alone were accompanied by this natural brutality, yea even they sounded in violent shrieks as to make deaf the hapless victim of their mindless rage. One hand gripped the reigns harder; imprinting the leather strap upon the flesh of the palm it was pressed. The other held the bandana on the torn lips and hairy lower face. The nose was also sheltered in this way, even as each wave of wind did its utmost to remove the bandana and let open the floodgates. He feared even opening his eyes, so all he did was walk in the direction he assumed to be a straight line. It was blind faith that led him onward; his counsel being dominant for his mule.

Another hit and suddenly his grip on the reigns loosened just enough that a second pounding after that of wind and sand struck him hard enough to have the reigns leave his touch. He would have screamed, he would have opened his eyes to locate that packhorse. It was his life at stake, he was doomed regardless of whatever victory could be achieved. There was no leniency, no way to turn back now. If his mule was dead, he was going to be dead. Lost amidst the sand, without the burdens previously offered, he walked no longer. Instead, gathering his sore legs and now holding the bandana with both rough gloved-covered hands, he attempted to run, even as the sands rose high like a blizzard found in the more arctic places. His run was more a jog, slowed by his jacket and his boots, which were filling with the sands on the ground and in the forceful air. Breathing hard, it got harder to keep the bandana fixed upon its place and harder still to keep the unwanted grains out. He would not stop, he feared slowing down. Why he sought preservation when all was lost will never be known by any human being, yet so natural and carnal an urge could not be denied. All he knew was that he refused to terminate in this fashion.

As though seeing marvelous light for the first time, as though looking at the world through eyes having just exited the womb, his vision reduced by tightly shut lids could view the amount of dark and bright. The sounds were pushing behind him and the hue of the inside of the lids, once tightly restricting the pupils from their obligations, slowly released their grip as it became evident for his entire body that the tempest had passed. He fell to all fours as his eyes opened, the first sight being the barren dusty ground he had viewed often throughout his life in the wasteland. He was not savoring the relief from tempest, but coughing to the point of vomiting, as the sand grains that remained in his system were being rejected by his body. For moments until discomfort prevailed, he stayed upon all four limbs as he regained his composure. The older pains returned, the aches in his lower back, the soreness found on arms and legs, the dryness of his lips wetted only by small wounds that pushed small streams of blood to the outside, and scruffiness of his short beard. Taking deep breaths he looked at the passing storm, which went behind him, covering completely what visions may be found of the horizon as well as the location of his mule.

Like a wave it had descended and destroyed everything around it, consuming the bricks and the pieces of marble that had lingered even after their respective achievements had been dealt with by the merciless world. The tempest had carried away so much from the desert, so many had probably been dealt with fatally by the wrath of the natural. The lonely traveler knew that mortality being severed was quick for them, but slow and drawn out for him. With the mule having been taken in the tempest he had no more water, only one empty bottle on him that he had planned to fill later that day. All the food was also gone with bags, as well as a change of clothes in the event he would find life amongst the dunes and storms. There was nothing left save himself, with roughed clothing torn in some places by the winds and their grains. Even this remnant of all that characterized the one-man expedition was barely there. Having expelled in possible ways the sand that had entered him, he was already parched and weary. The distant but intruding sun was reaching its apex quickly that day, showing a determination to boil that which could be boiled, burning what could be burned. There in its wake, its destructive bountiful wake was that man. Most assuredly nothing had survived the tempest, no stone upon any stone, where is my refuge?

And then he turned. Looking with eyes forming tears, he saw it. It was not a monument, neither was it a great edifice. The Crimson star had not fallen from its place and landed before him; it was something different. The tempest behind him, the sun above him, the barren wastes beneath him, and the sky surrounding him left his mind. It was before him, cardinally east to his perspective. It was not in salute, with screams of beleaguers under its weight. It was not immense, as though a civilization had took to sweat and pain to construct it. There was devotion, but there was also peace. He felt, unlike the others, a sense of kinship, for both had endured the greatest tempest ever to be leveled by the wasteland, the superlative of the arsenal of entropy. It was not made of marble, neither of the bricks whose tonnage exceeded the extent of many measuring scales. The frame of the structure was of solid rock, perfectly cut and gray in hue. Stone upon stone had weathered the tempest that still lingered far behind the man, who had forgotten it already.

Limping towards it, the structure was imposing compared to the measure of any human, but minute compared to the edifices he had encountered previously. The gray stone structure was shorter than the monument, especially when factoring the raised palm of marble and it would have easily fit many times over within the triangular edifice consumed by the desert. He reached out his hand, the glove removed and tossed upon the ground and forgotten, feeling how cold the gray wall was when compared to the grasp of the woman who was briefly his companion. But he was curious, his spirit kept his weakened flesh walking along the edge of the structure, feeling with his hand the well-cut and firmly established stone. Little time passed before he felt a wooden door, untouched by the stormy blast, and pushed it to no avail. To be certain that it was locked, he pulled on the black handle only to have the wooden door swing open to reveal the nave. Fearing the return of the great storm, or even the tribulation offered by lesser ones, he entered.

Entering the nave the door slammed shut behind him, most likely the winds picking up again. It had been so long since he had been inside any building; from the storms gathering outside, readying to pound any in their yet again, he had tested shelter. The floor was also made of stone, cold to the touch but desirable for the man who had journeyed through merciless dry heat and burning rays of sun. Inside the gray hue was retained, with only rectangular windows made of colored glass providing visibility for the weary traveler. Feeling no further need for it, he took off his jacket and the other glove, leaving them upon the cold stony ground. He advanced forward towards the eastern end of the building, noting as he got closer to the front that two transepts, one facing north and one facing south. On either side of him he saw chairs, perfectly aligned and all facing the eastern side of the building. Ahead of him he noticed something else not found in the wasteland outside. At the very end of the building, the location he was approaching, there was an altar draped in scarlet, with two lit candles on the right and left ends of the altar, and a golden cross in the middle. Above and behind the altar there was an impressive stain glass illustration of a Shepherd, whose staff was a cross and whose search for his lost sheep seemed to transpire around the man.

Before he could get to the altar and the glass image of the Shepherd seeking the lost, he saw a large circular pool. In the middle of a lifeless desert the man had not seen this much water in so long, believing that an amount that great was mere child’s fantasy. Moving his eyes from the pool to the Shepherd, his mind leaped past its former boundaries and the paradigm had shifted past the borders originally granted it by the traveler. He had entered the barren forsaken looking for something eternal, the everlasting was thought to be out there. Through his quest he lost sight of himself, his well-being, and surrendered to passions, to tyranny, and to temporal glory. All was destroyed because all could be destroyed. Staring at the Shepherd, Who desired his lost to be found, the man trembled not through human weakness but in awe. The eyes of the Shepherd looked upon this lost one, drained by the world around him, thrown by every tossing storm, and at the mercy of every fascinating feature established one day and gone the next. Through eras and epochs, eons and millennia uncounted, there was something eternal.

I have found what I have been looking for all this time, something that the wasteland holds no dominion over. Take me as Thy own, O Eternal One. With this in his heart, the man took his first step into the waters of the pool. His right leg in, the left soon followed. He had nothing new on in attire, he came as he was and bent down into the pool of water, descending into the abyss of dark blue before the eyes of the Shepherd, in front of the altar. After some moments he arose, the water cascading down his body. He was not revitalized, for such a word would imply merely a return to normalcy. Rather he was strengthened beyond what was found before, sent to a level greater than he had ever stepped upon. His bones thickened and became secure, his muscles tightened and were firm. His lips were no longer chapped and his eyes were pure white, along with eyelids feeling fresh. He could now see what was once hidden, as the other stain glass became more than mere collages of hues, but scenes from the Old and New Testaments. He studied them all and finding at a lectern nearby he now had the ability to study further.

Strong again, with might not his own, the man stood before the altar in genuflection and spoke aloud: “Glory to Him Who stands not in the sand-grains, which erode and cover the temporary, but rather Who stands above the expanse of time itself. In commemoration of this commitment to that which drives away oblivion, I shall grant unto myself a name. My name from this day of dedication until my entry into the eternal shall be John Mark. And then, when my perspective has changed and I see this beyond, may my new name be sealed in stone.”

Invigorated, he left for the western entrance and noticed a new set of clothing. He knew not how it got there but it fit him perfectly and he robed himself in these fresh garments, discarding the attire that had worn with time. He opened the door of wood through pushing its frame and saw on the barren outside a well fed powerful steed. There was no saddle, no bit or bridle, but it stayed perfectly where it was, awaiting his mounting. With youthful life he mounted without trouble, the horse being turned by his command. Then John Mark pondered, realizing all that had just happened to him, the commitment he made, the surrender he offered. He no longer felt the worldly pains of iniquity. There was a longing, not felt since John Mark had started into the desert: a concern for others. He knew many others, so many, were as he, wondering aimlessly in the wasteland. John Mark knew what he was obligated to do: find the lost. With this purpose know affixed to his life, he set out from the cross-shaped structure, representing eternity itself.

As he went forth, his mind was now firmly focused on the sacred: Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered. Blessed is the man unto whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no guile…When I kept silence, my bones waxed old through my roaring all the day long. For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me: my moisture is turned into the drought of summer…Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance...