The land was cracked and worn like an ancient clay pot. She shuffled along the uneven surface doing her best to avoid catching her toe in a crevice. Though her feet throbbed, she refused to unstrap her boots, apprehensive about the condition in which she might find her feet. Her blood was pooling so thickly that it had begun to tarnish the leather. The pain was but one shred of an entire spectrum of growing agony.
Her legs pleaded for rest but she could not spare even a moment. Her message was vital to her clan’s survival and the less time she spent in this godsforsaken desert the better. Her waterskin had dried up days ago, yet still she would wring the empty container as if her coaxing could reveal an untapped cache. Her lips were blistered and her mouth as dry as sand. The pulsing misery in her head blurred her vision, or perhaps it was the heat of the sun roasting her flesh like a beast on a spit.
A sudden convulsion brought her to her knees. She had been ignoring the pain in her stomach and its supplication for food but now she could abate it no longer. Her hands sizzled against the earth as she heaved but there was nothing to expel. She collapsed onto her side and curled into a ball.
She wished she had died on the tip of a spear as her kith had, at least it had been a quick death. Instead, she would be erased from history, just as the temple had nearly been. She discovered it years ago when first she ventured into the desert. At first she had been certain it was a mirage. The great stone Urdakai jutting its tapered tip out of the sand, its monolithic body buried eons ago. She saw visions of a great civilization, her predecessors, working the land and prospering under a great ruler. She knew then in her heart that they would once again rise to glory. But she lived many years since then under the heat of a harsh sun and any such optimism had been long since evaporated.
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky. Little specks of black circled far above. She had failed. Her body was spent. Her skin was seared beyond recognition. Perhaps her tribe would yet survive the coming battle even without her warning of treachery. She tilted her head to the side and gazed at the distance. Dark figures danced on the horizon; probably another mirage. She closed her eyes and thought of home.
The Messenger was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
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