I thirst...

“I thirst!”

Where did these words come from? Dren Soafik was not the one uttering them. Yet, they came not from without, but from within him. They filled the darkness around him. With dread did they fill his heart. He trembled, as the words kept resounding in the void— “I thirst... I thirst…”—echoing, echoing, till he was brought back to light.

He woke up. He yelled. His scream reverberated through the vastness of the desert, just as the accursed words had resounded through the dark expanse of his sleep.

“There he goes!” cried Goldinköp, in exasperation. “Even in broad daylight, a Nightmare pursues him! We should’ve left him behind, for nightmares attract other miasma… He’ll doom us all, I tell you!”

“Milord, it was you who accepted him in our caravan!” replied Sueton, hopping alongside his master’s camel.

“O dear, Sueton,” sighed Goldinköp “You shall never build fortune if you spurn good coin, no matter the source. But once the coin rests in your pocket, you may do as you please. For lo, there are no prying eyes in this desert. He paid to come with us, not to arrive safely. Leave him behind, I say, with all the miasma preying upon his ailing soul!”

“Milord, I assure you, such wicked act would attract even more miasma. Leave him be.”

Atop his camel, Goldinköp groaned. As a merchant, he had learned to be practical. That virtue, he had inherited it from his forebears, the panotti—a people with ears as long as his body was short. These long ears fell to the height of his knees, losing heat when travelling through the scorching deserts, and covering his body when journeying through the eternal snows. He could fit anywhere, both in the laws of the land and the lawlessness of the waste. As such, Goldinköp knew that, to leave Dren to die, he would have to rely on Sueton’s complicity, lest he denounce him. It would be best—so he thought—to distract the honest guide now, so he would forget this hideous proposal:

“Anyway, we're running short on water. If memory serves me, there is a well around these parts.”

Sueton was as short as his master, but his ears were of a more regular size. He was a sciopod, meaning he had only one leg to stand on. He would hop along, guiding the camels and caravans through paths he had engraved in his memory, passed down from his father and his father’s father—sciopods just like him, caravan guides by trade. He knew the desert in ways Goldinköp could not even imagine. And he was aware of news that people from faraway lands knew not.

“Indeed it be so, milord, to the southeast, though I would caution against going there. It would be wiser to turn northward, for another spring lies in that direction.”

Goldinköp’s entrails churned. He sensed squandering, and he hated it.

“What say you? A detour? How long would it take?”

“One day and a half more, milord, but our water supplies will hold.”

“And delay my next caravan as much. For what purpose?”

“A couple months ago, the spirit inhabiting the well went mad and destroyed the prosperous village that thrived there. If milord fears the miasma, why would milord rush to meet an evil spirit? Also, these parts are swarming with marauders.”

It was as Sueton had jinxed their fates. Swiftly, a dozen bandits sprung from the dunes in front of them. In a blink of an eye, they flanked the caravan. They were hideous, with bodies of men and heads of bulls or wolves. They carried axes and shotels, their blades shining with the noon's glare. With a loud war cry, Goldinköp's bodyguards—the finest warriors he could hire—rushed to meet the thieves in battle.

However, as the first dead fell to the ground, a new army joined the fray. Not an army of flesh, but of sylphs from the air, blowing violently from the north.

A mighty sandstorm arose, swallowing caravan and raiders alike. 'Twas as if the sand, repulsed by the taste of death, had risen against it.

“O woe is me. For the miasma I so feared joined in foul alliance with the marauders! Sueton, make haste! Save as much of my goods as you can!”

But as much as he squinted, Sueton could not see anything in that sandstorm besides his lord and the camel he rode on. The storm scattered all the other camels and servants—they were nowhere to be found. Yet, he could hear the howls of the bandits all around them.

"Milord, if there be goods I can save, is your life and mine." He so said and gripped the rein of the camel where Goldinköp rode, guiding the beast away from the fray. He hopped, hopped, hopped, until he had a glimpse of an opening in the sand curtain. But between their position and their freedom lurked a dark silhouette. Could it be a brigand? The shadow drew near—they could now see it had no head or neck. It was a blemmy, a man with his face resting on his chest, wandering aimlessly in the storm.

"It’s that wretched Dren Soafik! He brought naught but troubles upon our heads! Leave him be!" ordered Goldinköp. But Sueton yelled to him:

"This way, sir. This way you'll be safe.” Dren obeyed, almost instinctively, and Sueton pushed him up the camel's hump. Only then did they flee the sandstorm.

Scant moments later, another figure emerged from the maelstrom unto the clear desert air. A minotaur it was, Fesul by name, a thief and a murderer by trade. He spotted them in the distance and gave them chase.

*****

Sueton tried to guide the camel northward, as planned. But the storm kept cutting them off, pushing them towards the haunted southeast, till they stumbled upon an abandoned village.

The camel was huffing, exhausted by the run—the animal could not bear it any longer. The beast knelt on his four legs, its nose flapping over its anxious breath, melting as long strings of slobber. Without saying a word, Dren slowly slid from the camel’s hump and sat on the sand, lost in his thoughts. Goldinköp kept himself atop the camel, burdening the animal’s rest, for he wanted to survey the area. At the heart of the ruins, he saw a decrepit well.

“Sueton, I thirst!” Goldinköp complained, as he coughed out the sand thrust into his mouth by the storm. “Go and fetch some water from that well!”

“Milord, a haunted well that be! Disturb not the spirit within! Let us wait for the storm to wane and then be on our way.”

“Our water will not last that long! Go and fetch water for me! Have I not paid you? Do your master’s bidding!”

“Milord, I dare not…”

Suddenly, they heard a coarse voice behind them:

“You’d better dare.”

They turned. It was Fesul, the fiend, who spake. “No other choice will be given you, for I too thirst.” He said, threatening them with his shotel.

Sueton coiled at the sight of the blade. A choice indeed it was, between certain and uncertain doom. He hopped towards the well and peered inside. At once, a voice resounded within, feminine as a mermaid, furious as an ogre:

“What business hast thou with me, mortal? Seekest thou thine end?

“I seek not my end milady, but to avert it. I’m a wanderer in dire need of water. I beg you, fair lady, grant me some of your water, for I thirst!”

“All alike ye mortals are! Always coming to me with your complaints, coveting my treasured water! For how many centuries must I bear it? What care have I for thy thirst? Hast thou inquired if I thirst not as well?” The voice trembled with rage, and so made Sueton’s knee tremble. “Well, I do thirst! Grant me beverage, and thy request shall be granted!”

“Milady…” Sueton pleaded “How can I grant you water, if water is what I lack?”

“Foolish mortal!” The voice thundered within the well. “Dost thou think a spirit such as I would be sated with mere water? Give me a more suitable liquid, stronger, thicker… saltier as well!”

“Strong and thick, heh?” Fesul smiled with malice. “And salty as well… I know what she demands: The nectar poured out in dark libations for the powers that be! What other liquid could appease the gods?” The brigand so said and walked menacingly towards Dren. The poor blemmy had not moved a muscle since they had arrived. Only when he saw Fesul’s shadow looming over him, did Dren dare move his eyes upward. He knew what lied in Fesul’s thoughts… yet did not react. He accepted his impending fate—almost as if he was relieved. It was Sueton who, fast on his swift foot, placed himself between them:

“Sir, why lift your blade against this poor soul?”

“I know now what the lady of the well requires. Blood is what she wants. So step aside, if you wish not for your blood to be spilled in his stead!”

“Sueton, leave him!” Goldinköp said, for he still needed his guide alive if he wanted to leave that desert. “We may get our water and rid ourselves of this burden all at once!”

The sciopod’s mind was running, almost as swiftly as his foot.  He looked to his master, who was waving at him from the camel. Then, his thoughts were lit, as if by a lightning:

“Sir, if ‘tis blood you want, then slay the camel!”

“What?!” Goldinköp yelled. “Are you insane? How are we going to leave this desert without the camel?”

“Look at this camel’s state! It’s of no use to us now. If we allow this vile murder to happen, then the miasma will never leave our side. The desert shall repel us, and the sandstorm will not subside, till we all die in this forsaken place.”

“As you wish.” Fesul shrugged “Camel-less I came to this desert, and camel-less I may leave.” The bandit turned to Dren and said. “Thank your friend for saving your life… for now.” But the blemmy, once again, did not move, or even seem to listen.

The minotaur pushed Goldinköp out of the camel’s hump, forced the beast near the well, and slit its neck atop the pit’s mouth. The animal’s blood gushed into the abyss, alongside Fesul’s words:

“Lady! I have kept my side of the bargain! Now grant me your water!”

But the spirit was not pleased. A strong gust issued from within the well. The blood splattered all around as if the pit had spit it off:

“How dare thee? How dare thee offer me this most foulest of drinks? No water shall I bequeath thee, all water I shall take from thee, so be thou accursed!”

The gust shrouded Fesul within a cloud of dust. The minotaur bellowed from within the gale, his voice growing weaker and weaker, till only silence remained. When the winds broke and the dust settled, there was nothing more than a pile of salt where the brigand once stood.

*****

The three survivors stood in silence for a long time. Puzzled silence. Terrified silence.  Without water, they would surely perish. But perish they would—now they knew—if the lady of the well would be displeased. Hours passed, and naught happened. The sandstorm brewed still in the northern horizon:

“Confound all this!” protested Goldinköp “I won't die of thirst with water by my side!”

“Milord, do you think wise…”

“Of course! That foolish fiend gave blood for her to drink! Blood! What was he expecting? Now I…”—and Goldinköp pointed to some of his merchandise, still hanging from amphorae on the sides of his decapitated camel’s corpse—“I have beverages worthy of the gods! She will rain water on us, you’ll see!”

For a while, the merchant hesitated between his most lavish wine and his cheaper ale. Eventually, he cast some beer on the well, though not much, lest none would be left for his customers. But the lady of the well replied:

“Keep thy paltry drink! No water shall be granted thee!”

“Paltry?” Goldinköp could be a miser, but a proud miser he was, boastful of his stock.  “I’ll show her paltry!” And he took his most expensive, most exquisite wine. In the mouth of the well did he pour it, as a libation, and said:

“Tell me now, milady, how much water did this buy?”

“Not a single drop. Could my thirst be worth a mere trifle such as this?”

Goldinköp’s long ears were now fuming. He took an iron cauldron from one of the ruined houses and started gathering fragments of wood:

“Milord, what are you doing?”—asked Sueton, alarmed.

“Solving our conundrum…”—replied the merchant—“The answer is simple, for the answer is always the same: gold!”

He so said, and lit a fire, placing the cauldron on it. He emptied his pockets and purses of all his coin and melted the gold until it was in liquid form. Then, he threw the scorching concoction into the pit.

But the spirit, far from satisfied, issued a dreadful shriek:

“How dare thee? How dare thee offer me this most foulest of drinks? No water shall I bequeath thee, all water I shall take from thee, so be thou accursed!”

A new gust issued from the well and engulfed Goldinköp, leaving naught behind but a pillar of salt. Only a frightened Sueton and a lethargic Dren were left alive.

*****

Sueton pondered longly. This was a most capricious spirit, hard to please, quick to anger. Certainly, to appease the sylphid, a gentler approach was required. The well was in bad shape—perhaps he could restore it to its former state. The sciopod was hard working and skilful—the lady would certainly take note of it.

For long hours, Sueton toiled under the scorching sun. Patiently, he gathered rocks from the ruins, meticulously choosing the ones fitting among the gaps left in the structure. Then, he collected materials from the nearby houses, handpicking only the ones that had withstood the passage of time. He fixed the pulley, replaced the rotten wood, tied a bucket to new chains.

When he was done, he peeked from atop the well. Had she noticed his efforts at all? His face was dripping with sweat. On the well did this sweat fall, not as dew, but as strong, salty streams, breaking through the lady’s dam of indifference. However, it was not delight which gushed forth from there. As she tasted Sueton’s sweat, the sylphid burst out of the well, a parched water spirit all covered in sand:

“Enough! Why did ye come hither? To disturb me? Dost thou understand my thirst?”—her face was terrible, but beautiful; beautiful, but terrible—“Once, I was the spirit of this rich well, godmother of this prosperous oasis village! From nigh and afar, mortals would seek my precious water! Till the day the marauders came…” Her anger was now seasoned with a tinge of sadness. “They plundered, they destroyed, they killed! Naught was left in their wake, as thou seest! And I was given blood to drink, foul beverage! Gold as well, the source of the thieves’ covetousness! You have opened wounds of painful memories, you have magnified my thirst! Didst thou think thy sweat would solve anything?!” Her eyes were now set ablaze, the sand covering her was like the storm. “No more! No water shall I bequeath thee, all water I shall take from thee, so be thou accurs…”

She halted. Sueton, who had closed his eyes so as not to witness his own demise, dared open them slightly. The lady seemed to be gasping, as if something had entered her throat. They heard a sob, and turned to Dren, his tears cascading in salty streams:

“A thirst you cannot sate… A thirst marred with death. What an awful pain to bear! I too, saw a lady thirsting once. I couldn’t alleviate her.”

For the first time, Dren’s eyes seemed alive. Sylphid and sciopod stood silent, till Dren spoke again: “My beautiful wife… she was taken by a fever. No physician could heal her. She begged for water... but was too weak to swallow. I wet her lips with a sponge, but she was still thirsting… at the end…”

Dren sought words, but his mouth was unable to utter them. He wanted to tell them how he had run away from his hometown, from all those painful memories. Whole deserts, he had crossed. Still, he had found no peace. His tears kept falling, and he could not see that the sylphid’s sand was being washed away, revealing her watery nature underneath. Soon, she too would cry. She did not understand if she cried for Dren, his wife, the ruined village, or herself. But they cried for long moments both. And Sueton dared not interrupt.

The twilight came. A freshness kissed the burning cheeks of sylphid and blemmy alike. Sueton peered into the well—it was filled with water to the brim, as fresh and rejuvenating as the dusk. The spirit sighed and gazed upon the stars:

“I thank ye, mortals, sincerely. You have quelled my thirst. So let my water ease your troubles as well. Take! Take all the water ye need! Fill your waterskins as much as ye like!” She so said, and she was gone.

Sueton withdrew the water and filled the waterskins, as she commanded. He then handed Dren a full canteen, patting him gently on the back. The blemmy drank. And, for the first time in a long time, he felt like the water had refreshed not only his throat, but his heart as well. Finally, he had sated someone's thirst...

They got up; their strengths fully restored.

The sandstorm was gone.

They could now brave what was left of the desert…