Remnants

The curse was set upon us when there was nothing I could do. An infant emerging in new flesh, lifted into its glaze. I remember the time when they first told me of it, a surge of disillusionment in the folktale of a radiating, crystallized infant. One who would become the catalyst of pestilence, drought and famine, setting the world ablaze in a mass of sandstorms. The world desperately began to search of magics to break the curse, when all else had failed.

Centuries would pass so I could discover a newer, more informed gaze. To watch over its progression through green binoculars, scanning a horizon that could not help but radiate the expanse of a wasteland. Through the lens, sometimes it would appear that really there were towers, hidden in those dry scattering mounds of sand. Perhaps there were others. But even these were few, far between, apart. I would often drift away in reverie, to wonder of the shifting and emerging Great Dunes.

Captivated by the scattering golden and red dusts of the dunes, I found this out for sure when Castille began to journey by caravan, slowly travelling south, emerging as a larger and larger figure. The movements of the caravan, emphasized in pronounced, long shadows from the bleating rays of the sun, were slow, careful and almost intricate. Somehow blending into all that surrounded, they seemed fewer and fewer as the caravan approached, shadows now cast directly downwards, intact.

Castille spoke in soft, hushed tones and began to tell of a homeland beyond. The journey had not been as difficult as it had seemed, the dunes low and the storms at season’s bay. I could join, it was assured, to continue the journey and search alongside the others.

It appeared at first that the caravan fumbled with each passing moment. Some ready to rest, others staring sharply into my face to discover hidden words and thoughts behind my eyes. The majority though, in formation with Castille, were inviting. It was with this assurance that I began to travel.

As the hours passed, conversation became less jovial, more expectant. At first subtle remarks, questioning how I had survived on my own for so many years. Whispers implored others to press further- to explain what I had learned of myself, of the curse, my next course of action. When I had no answers to give, we sunk into silence, our steps becoming more laborious, having less purpose.

Among the many mystical trinkets of the caravan, tomes of alchemy and jars glimmering from sunsets long passed, Castille produced a modest, rusted locket. Ready to cast the dented charm aside, it was without doubt I should take it upon myself. It must have once been perfectly heart-shaped, but now could no longer open, cracking among its indentations and therefore not capable of providing much protection from the sharper gusts of sand. Polishing it’s rusted exterior, a history of gold began to emerge with hesitation. It would just return to rust once again, it seemed almost immediately. But when it had not, I would gaze into its warmth for assurance. It could remind me.

The earth had been scorched for as long as we could remember. Each time I had voyaged only to discover that moving onwards could not settle the curse- my resolve not yet strong enough, a cruel sway of the mind. I had long accepted the blame I had been born into and until now, had lost the inspiration to travel in search of cleansing.

Castille had been the first to approach in some time, the mass of dunes between myself and others had become bearable over the years. There had others, in times long passed, who longed to guide an uncovering. A calling to dissipate the bleak fogs, raging sandstorms and rampant drought- these could perhaps become worries of the past. Castille pursued the same desire to have nourishment from the earth and nourishment from each other in kind. It was noble, but naïve.

Our lips first pressed together under dim moonlight. With a sensuous embrace and furtive glance, we exchanged signals of doubt and warmth, shrouded in wonderment. Castille and I shuffled and clamored, my necklace breaking and charm tumbling into the sands. Before my eyes, the fine details of Castille’s face became worn, aged in despair and disappointment. It was even more alarming to witness the color drain from Castille's face, as we proceeded to implore the sands to return my locket. I was able to find it, but all I could now do was to pin it among the scarves wrapped in layers around my person. With each step, I would now readjust, pin, or nestle my rusted charm, but it would fall and disappear again, the whole caravan in pursuit.

When at last they arrived, the charm had settled in the sands, lost to all. It seems that I too had settled in the sands, Castille circling and retracing, in search of us. Squinting through thick green lenses, I could not help but glance once again to study the arches and curves of Castille’s face. It was one last moment of confusion, despair and affection. The sands tumbled and shifted, my gaze retreating, in search of remnants among the Great Dunes.