The Dream of Spring, Part 1

  • Baron

    The desert can do many things to a man. One could long for a great many things in the desert and find themselves unable to hold onto any of their greatest desires. It is the custom of the people that dwell there to move with the winds, shift with the sands, in search of the dream of spring.

    It is with this thought that a man sat awake in his tent, a prayer bead in his hand as he silently tutored himself the prayers of his new Lord. The man, who was a leader of his tribe and who’s name was Talash Tabar-Nezhad, had inexplicably awoken from his sleep with this thought that had since this moment been a fact of life and nothing more.

    His heart was beating rapidly and he had suddenly become conscious of his own breath as his mind turned and fumbled, trying to discern its meaning.

    The dream of spring

    He had never heard anyone describe it as such - not from the wandering poets that his father used to take in for the night nor from the Manzur who had come from the east to absolve his tribe from their old ways. It came from nowhere but within.

    Dawn would soon arrive, bringing his God over the eastern horizon to call the faithful in obeisance to His arrival. He rose to his feet with great difficulty, though he was not yet old, dressed, though he needn’t to, and went out to the dark.

    He walked a great distance away, past the tents of his relatives and their relatives, and the palm trees and shrubs of the oasis. He hadn’t bothered to take a camel with him as he clambered up the side of a dune, his back turned to the oasis, it’s tents, and his tribe. He struggled greatly to climb the summit, his feet slipping and sinking beneath the soft sand as his hands clawed up sand behind him.

    Finally, he reached the summit and stood facing across the endless sand at his God the sun rising from the darkness to burn away the night, to call on the faithful to obeisance at his arrival, and to rise facing Talash.

    His eyes remained on the sun that had tortured his tribe and tribes like his own as they travelled beneath in search of water, that leaves the world to the void-nights of chaos that preyed on his people, and that rose from the east where the wellspring Martoise resides.

    He stood facing his God though it blinded and pained him, watching its golden warmth touch him, radiate him from the damp coldness of his tent and the dream of spring that his people longed for each day. He thought of the dream, of the phrase that had awoken him from his sleep, of the Manzur that had brought them to the light from the darkness of their false ways. The Manzur, who had died late last night. The night before his awakening.

    He smiled.

    Smiled at the sudden revelation that dawned on him with the coming sun as he brought his index and middle finger to his lips, pressing the two digits on his forehead and blowing it in obeisance towards his God, the sun, Ántou.