A Teapot Full of Problems

A solitary figure trudges his way up the undulating dunes of sand. The unforgiving midday sun scolding the lands below, scattered across the vista is broken ruins of once-great civilizations, their secrets half-buried by the yellow desert sands. The figure moves ever onward, oblivious to the world around him, his eyes focused down at the teapot clutched in front of him, deep in thought. 

“Curse this notebook! All it’s done is brought me misery. With its stupid, vague rules, I played it safe, twenty grand isn’t a lot! I never should have gone to Italy anyway, pasta bloats me, who likes wine anyway? Somewhere out there in another universe, there’s a version of me sitting on the sofa going, ‘damn, I wish I saved more and went to Italy, exploring ancient ruins did sound fun’. To him, I say sit down and count your blessings. You're not halfway around the world in the middle of the damn Sahara, in a shawl, holding onto a teapot full of problems.” 

His steps paused, he looks up to judge his progress, sighs to himself, and moves on. His faint imprints leaving a trail, much like an ant in a sandpit.  


“What am I thinking? It’s my fault, of course it is. It said on the inside cover 'Only honest men reap what they sow.' If only I burnt the damn thing or gave it to a museum. That would’ve been very Indiana Jones of me. I miss Maggie. I mean, I know she’s not far, but I miss talking to her. She always knew what to say, well at least to me, and when we’d visit mum and dad she’d have no arguing at the table. The look on their face the first time she raised her voice and told them what to do… priceless! Slack-jawed, wide-eyed, and stunned into silence. God, I wish I could speak to them all.”


Finally, at the crest of the dune, the figure cups his eyes with his hand and squints out Westward over the rolling sands. Far toward the horizon lies a wall of tall rocky hills, cracked with steep valleys, and twisting paths, the dry wind encrusting it all with a healthy layer of sand. The figure stands tall and stretches, the frayed blue and grey fabrics that make up his shawl draped down from his arms as he clicks his neck, first left, then right. Once complete, his shoulders shrug down, as do his eyes, as his posture returns to his seemingly eternal trudging. 


“What if you found an ancient book, that promised you whatever you could write? Strange question I suppose. Some context is needed. Well, what if you found that book in the bowels of an old Roman Temple, hidden behind a fresco…? That you accidentally broke. With a friend who's an archeologist. Who translated what was written as soon as we found it. Argh! Stop going over and over the details in your head! Twenty grand to play it safe… you are an idiot. Though finding where I messed up was helpful, made me go over all the times I was dishonest. I didn’t realise that I lied so much. I hope it’s not just me. 


I should’ve known sooner that medicine wasn’t going to help them. I lied about the money and now… well, I guess I’m taking the book home. Hopefully someone or something there can show me how to lift this curse. What if I get there and I’m just waiting for Godot? Take the weight off until I die of thirst? I suppose that’s the point of a fetch quest, you don’t know if you’re going to get rewarded or betrayed. I wonder who this book betrayed all those years ago to be sealed away in the fashion it was. If it could speak, what stories it would tell.”


With weary perseverance, the figure edges his way across the barren wastes, once filled with life, society, and great monuments to old gods now lost or forgotten. Empires that seemed eternal, kings that were certain they were, now lay broken beneath the ever-churning sand. Nothing lasts forever, everything changes, it's how we act despite that that shows our true character. The figure encroaches on the rocky hills as the sun grows heavy in the west, its reddening hue leaking out across the large open sky. He stops, confronted by a shadowed valley that twists its way through the hills. The howl of something large and predatory faintly echos around the valley, joined by a hungry chorus of howls in reply. Paused by fear, the figure takes a deep breath and against his instincts steps into the half-shadow of the valley. 

“I feel like there’s a quote from pulp fiction I should be saying, or is that originally from the bible? Eh, who’s to say it's originally from the bible? It’s very hard to find something truly new, truly original. The great stories are all very similar at heart, it’s just a change of window dressing. I wish I heeded their words sooner, I wouldn’t have made the same mistakes if I did. When I got back from Italy I should have just told them the truth, they would have laughed and we would have got on with our lives. twenty grand richer too. But you can’t bend reality and get away with it, no matter how small. The universe tends to deal out its justice in poetry.

East of here, far away, is where Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun. The best-preserved tomb of all the pharaohs. It turns out it was preserved because he died young and his father was one of the most hated pharaohs ever. So hated was his father that his successor ordered their names to be wiped from all monuments and records. He was even buried in a noble's tomb not typically fit for a pharaoh. This meant that over millennia no one knew he existed. So no one went looking for the tomb. It went un-robbed and became buried until good ol’ Howard came along. The ancient Egyptians believed that to speak the name of the dead is to make him live again, it restores the breath of life to him who has vanished. So, as long as your name is spoken, your eternal life is assured. You tell me what pharaohs you can name… poetic justice indeed.

My family has grown so ill it was difficult smuggling them over, luckily I took them out of the hospital before it got too bad. I told them I’d never leave them behind. If they didn’t believe me before they should now.”

As the valley path traces its way through the jagged rock, along to marches the figure. Upwards it winds, straining tired muscle to exhaustion. Occasionally, a squared, pointed rock poked out of the ground. Its sides baring faint carvings of an ancient script, semi-submerged in the sand, they looked like the top of obelisks. Further on, the top of a huge stone cobra, the top half of its flared head standing twenty feet out of the sand. Around it, straight, narrow stones point towards the sky, like the tips of a giant crown. The sands high in these hills have a golden glimmer as if it was generously mixed with fine flakes of gold and precious metals. Ahead, the end of the path comes into sight, stopping at a megalithic temple built into the side of the inner-most hill. Tall, strong pillars support its enormous triangular roof, bleached white by the passage of time, but seemingly robust as the day it was built. The figure, though exhausted, gingerly begins to jog, keeping both hands on his teapot. 

He stumbles towards the large temple entrance, out of breath. A tall imposing entrance sheltered by its overhanging roof, cut out of the bedrock with ornate carvings adorning its massive frame. 

"Is anyone there!?" The figure bellows hoarsely. His voice echoing back across the valley, his eyes straining in the evening sun. "Please, my family is dying! I have cursed them, and myself. I seek to free them." The temple remains silent in its forgotten valley, as the flash of a shadow grabs the figure's attention. He cranes his neck upwards, high in the sky above the temple, circles a hawk. It stares down at him as if attempting to lock eyes, absorbed by this rare connection with nature, he loses his sense of space and time seems to stretch on forever just for a fleeting moment. 


He snaps back to reality. Something was behind him. Adrenaline spins him around, shielding the teapot with both arms. "Who are you!?" He blurts out reflexively. 

stood in front of the entrance was a tall muscular man, but he was wisely aged like the Greek statues of old. In his right hand, he grasped a gleaming golden staff bent over at the top. He wears a cloth of brilliant white, unstained by the large open wound on his face where his eye once sat. "You called for help, I've come to your call." 

"Thank you, erm are you okay? Your eye, I'm sorry." Said the figure, somewhat subdued by this man's aura.  

"Nothing to be sorry about, It was my decision. What brings you all the way out here to me?" He said with a strong accented voice. 

"I... I... Well, I found a book that promised me anything I could write so long as I was honest. I didn't believe it and lied about the money it gave me, my family they..." His voice cracks as he holds back a well of emotion. With shaking hands he holds out the teapot to the man, he leans in and removes its lid. Peering into the pot, his brows raise in reaction. 

"I see." The man returns the lid and gently pushes the teapot back. "Can you show me the book?" The figure produces the black notebook, centries of worn patina on its surface. The man looks at it like an old friend.

"Finally, it came home." He takes the book off of the figure. "I am sorry for the trouble this book has caused, it was never meant to fall into untrusted hands. The rules were a safeguard of sorts, for your long journey, and because you came to correct your mistake. I will show you how to save your family."

"Th... Thank you. How? I'll do anything." he replied.

"Go into the temple and empty your teapot onto the alter, you'll place the book into the brazier and set it alight with a sacrificial flame. The smoke will blow over the alter and then, it will be done." He pulls a torch from his clothes and sets it aflame. He hands it to the figure. 

"Thank you!" He turns and runs into the temple. He finds the alter and gently empties the teapot, out of which come three emaciated-looking humans with grey leathery skin. They stand at four inches tall but seem unaware of the world around them. 

"Mum, Dad, Maggie. Hold on just a little longer." He bolts around to the heavy brass brazier in which he finds a heap of cash, about twenty thousand dollars worth. "Sacrificial flame." He chuckles to himself, dropping the book, then the torch. Smoke billows out immediately stinging his eyes. He coughs as it clears, heart pounding, mind racing. On the alter lie his family, removed of their curse, and stirring. He runs across the sandy floor crying with joy.

"What? Where are we?" His mother cries, he rushes over, bringing them together in a warm embrace. 

"The desert, but that doesn't matter. We've got our family back."