B 612

Once when I was six my grandfather told me a story about an adventurous Pilot whom, while stranded alone in the Sahara Desert, meets an extraordinary little fellow.

The Pilot and the Prince were two drifters windblown amongst the sand dunes for a brief moment in time blanketed by sunny and starry skies.

Now, my grandfather was a bit of an eccentric. Nearly a century of exploring, tinkering, thinking, love and loss had emboldened him with a uniquely fantastical view of the world.

When I was young I loved his stories, his characters, and his animated expressions that lightened any room or mood.

It’s just that his fantasies became less endearing over time; his worlds too distant to enter, and expressions harder to bear.

But now sitting at my drafting table I find myself wishing I was the Pilot stranded alone in the Sahara Desert hoping to meet an extraordinary little fellow…

Wishing I was anywhere but here.

**

My grandfather passed last week. More like, he finally eclipsed us; his shine and brilliance now reserved for the heavens alone.

Staring up at me from my desk amongst the dog-eared textbooks, and accounting manuals, lie two seemingly identical Classic Black Moleskine notebooks.

One had accumulated years of character from loving use. While the other cowardly remained mint untouched by both time and owner.

Both gifts.

Both gifts my grandfather had given me at very different times.

One had been a graduation present when I still had my spark and dreamed of becoming a world-renowned Engineer. While the other arrived only yesterday; a living memory I now held in my hands bound by leather and time.

**

Summoning a small reserve of courage I began flipping through his notebook. His handwriting instantly recognizable; bold yet playful, colourful and spirited.

The first teardrop slid down my cheek.

The first entry, “Care Instructions for a Rose."

How bizarre I thought. Then again, nothing about my grandfather was predictable.

InstantIy I’m struck by the sketch in the margin: a long vine stretched up from roots at the bottom of the page, menaced by a handful of thorns midway, and topped with a singular ruby-red rose in full bloom and glory.

The page is smudged and tiny grains of sand are caught in the binding somehow surviving the long journey towards me.

The script from my grandfather’s hand danced across the lines with ease, and listed in no particular order:

"Beware of baobabs (They grow quickly, and their roots pierce the soil.)"

"Sheep eat baobabs (They also eat roses with thorns.)"

"There are good seeds and bad seeds."

"Tend to your rose daily as a matter of discipline. For a rose is no simple flower, no rumpled common poppy."

**

I continued flipping through those well-worn pages and sat stunned by the most beautiful drawings each page revealed.

They would probably seem fairly common to anyone else, but to me it was the vivid and unique world of my grandfather somehow contained within this little black notebook.

There were 44 pages of sunsets coloured with every imaginable dazzling hue of red, orange, purple and yellow.

Not a single one drawn the same, yet equally stunning and complete.

44 teardrops slid down my cheeks.

**

As I flipped to the back after travelling sunset-to-sunset through miles of magnificent beauty, I opened to the page where the little ribbon lead me.

It was there I read his final words,

“To my Engineer, never forget who you are my little Princess —"

"B 612"

"A unique asteroid that contains a rare precious metal. A metal so rare and unique it could be used only for good on Earth, with a value far beyond measure. According to the Prince it can easily provide enough energy to light up the entire world."

"GPS: 23.4162 N, 25.6628 E"

**

Somewhere in the middle of the Sahara Desert my grandfather had found a well.