Coming of age is almost never a smooth and easy road.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided doing so thus far – and hope to continue delaying as many rites of passage as I can, for yes, as long as possible.

[deep chuckle]

Yet, truth be told, the storms of our youth coming to terms with their world around them often make for interesting tales. And have done just that I believe, if we can trust all the great stories and tales told throughout the years, remarkably well.

Well, [dry cough, smell of cherry tobacco lazily drifting in the air] this is one such tale, where a particular event signals the end of childhood and, ah [raised bushy eyebrow], the eventual birth of an adult.

So let’s move ahead to a certain red-headed youth writing a letter beneath the canopy of a giant tree on the Plains of Dust…

Dear Father,

It has been three months now since you had packed my bags, escorted me out of the house, and said, “Write when you get work.” I know now how you only mean the best for me – yes, you even bought passage for me on the first Ship out of Far Haven. Therefore, my dear father, I am writing this letter to let you know that I have now found work.

I also want you to know that I do apologize sincerely for every cruel and mean-spirited thing I had ever said about the other civilizations and people, especially the barbaric natives of Zuider Afrika, and those not sharing our heritage. I believe you do remember the references to their habits and ancestry well. You used to get so very angry with me, and now I admit that you had every right to do so.

I admit too, that at the beginning of my adventure, I planned never to write to you, to see you, or to speak to you ever again. However, after two months of self-examination and I suppose on the advice of a tree, I am writing to let you know what has befallen your wayward son.

If you are curious, maybe just a little interested, then I sincerely hope you have forgiven me enough to read on.

I don’t know what you expected me to do with my life when I left home that day, but I doubt it was this.

Your son,

Terrence.

FAR HAVEN

I remember all too clearly what it was I did that sent you into such a towering rage.

Since I do suspect you remember too I will not write about those memories.

Suffice to say, you packed me out of the house and onto a ship that very last day of March, sending me on my way to the coastal merchant city of the Cape of Storms, in Zuider Afrika.

By some strange fortune it was on one of the smaller freighters out of Far Haven, and in case you didn’t notice, the ship was called Wayward Wind. It was a small freighter that made leisurely stops down the coast of Africa, until it would head out to the main southern coast of the Cape of Storms, docking there. The captain told me it would eventually make its way back; stopping again at every possible port, too trade everything the Captain and his crew could get their hands on. The ship made this circuit about three times a year, according to Captain Zimmerman.

On this particular voyage we sailed down south, directly toward the Cape of Storms, taking the captain’s own sweet time and stopping at every port with a dock large enough to hold the Wayward Wind. At every stop Captain Zimmerman found something to trade or buy, no matter how insignificant.

It all got to be rather irritating.

I was spending a great deal of time in my cabin, and all of that starting, stopping, waiting to start again became very annoying. After about a month of that I’d had enough, and I complained to the captain.

Unfortunately, I exhibited rather poor judgment by not checking our position before I confronted our captain. He took offence at my tone and informed me my passage was over. From then on I had to work for my ride with the other sailors or he would put me ashore. Without casting a single glance at the coastline nearby, I informed him in a spitting rage that I would never work with such lowlifes!

The captain is man much like you, Father.

He dropped anchor then and there, packed my bags, and escorted me off the ship in a rowboat. He rowed me to shore and dumped me off with a single cask of water and a bag of sea biscuits.

That should have warned me, but I was too angry to pay any attention. I shouted things at him. He simply ignored me and rowed back to his ship.

I fully expected him to come rowing back with weak apologies and embarrassments at such a tasteless joke…until I heard the rattle of the anchor chain being drawn up.

I saw the sails come up and billow in the gentle breeze.

Soon Wayward Wind was just a small speck on the horizon, and I was utterly alone.

If that’s what you want, I thought furiously, I’ll just go to the nearest village and make my own way to the Cape.

Some day, I vowed, to track down that captain and burn his ship before his eyes!

West Coast of Zuider Afrika

It was about then that I took note of my surroundings.

I’ve heard you talk about your journeys and the voyages you have made to faraway places.

I remember clearly you describing some beaches where the sand was white and fine and gleamed like snow beside the open blue waters, green rich palms laid out like a gigantic wild tapestry…

I don’t think you’d bother to tell anyone about this beach.

First, it barely qualified as a beach. It was only a barren hem where the water met the land before the land rose into the hills and promptly turned into wasteland. Driftwood piled up at the high tide mark, and a few scraggy clumps of sea grass tried to grow at the base of the dunes scoured by the constant winds. The air was alive and buzzed with the sound of too many unfriendly clouds of little insects!

I looked around appalled.

There were no houses, no huts, and no villages in sight!

There wasn’t even a shack or a shipwrecked hull. The strip of beach and the land around it were totally empty as far as I could see.

I am not proud of what I did then Father.

It was the reaction of the boy I used to be.

Shaking my fist towards the vanished ship, I cursed and screamed as I stamped up and down the sand until I was staggering, and finally collapsed in the sand next to the pitiful mound of my belongings and sobbed like the child I was.

I look back on the memories of myself that afternoon and think how pathetic I must have looked. I am very grateful a certain someone did not come along at that point or she probably would have continued right by me and left me to rot in my self-pity.

By evening the scorching heat of the day was fading to be replaced by a chill wind from the sea. I realized I would have to do something, or I would soon be very cold and very hungry. I tried to start a fire with the flint and steel in my pack you very thoughtfully provided. To my dismay I discovered lighting damp driftwood is not as easy as it looked when you did it. I finally curled up in my cloak with a cup of water and a hard sea biscuit for company.

I must have fallen asleep for the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a wet, cold wave that playfully slopped over my legs and sucked greedily at my meager possessions.

I had forgotten the tide.

Frantically, I grabbed my two bags, the water cask and the biscuits before I staggered up the beach into the dunes beyond the piles of driftwood. The area in the dunes smelled as if something had recently died there, and it was full of sand fleas, but it was dry, and I could attempt to sleep without worrying about any incoming water.

The next day was no better.

I dried off my belongings and waited for someone to appear. Maybe I hoped a fisherman would come, or Captain Zimmerman would change his mind and return, or some adventuresome boys would show up from a village a few miles away.

But no one came.

Nothing happened.

All I saw was sand, waves and the occasional scraggy shore bird. It was the most desolate strip of land I’d ever seen. (Which at that time was not saying much!) It was so hot, even the lifeless sea seemed to steam!

At the fourth day I became alarmed at the level of water in my small cask. I had been drinking the water like I expected the cask to be refilled at any moment. Now I realized I might actually have to ration it. I walked back and forth along the beach for miles and all I found was more sand. There were no little creeks or handy rivers or small fresh water lakes close by, nor did I find any cottages with fresh water wells and perhaps a map.

This land was barren.

All reds and umbers and empty spaces…

I climbed the small rise of hills beyond the beach and promptly stepped into wasteland. At least it looked like wasteland to me. Just miles and miles of miles and miles! Did I mention the sand?

My heart sank at the sight of that dreadful vista. For the first time I pondered what I was going to do. It was becoming increasing obvious that I could not stay on the beach. It was so remote even smugglers did not seem to come here.

Someone might appear one day by accident or by design, but if I didn’t find water soon the only thing that traveler would find will be my beached bones baking in the relentless sun.

I certainly did not relish that vision!

My food, too, was a problem. I didn’t mind a salty sea biscuit once in a while with a cold beer to soften it and wash it down, but as a steady diet they left much to be desired.

I tried to catch fish – and only managed to step on a stinging sliming creature, which made my foot swell. I tried to catch the little crabs that scuttled across the beach at night – and made myself nauseous on the tiny bit of goo that came out of one uncooked crab. My pockets were empty, and even my small hipflask was dry.

I had to do something soon, or I would succumb.

That thought, rather than frightening me, made me angry. I cursed Captain Zimmerman and his ship, I cursed the beach, myself, and yes, dear Father, I cursed you.

All the years you were gone on your ship I wanted to be so like you Father. Then, one day, you came home to stay, and all I wanted was to be everything you were not. I loathed the sea. I ignored your offers for work on one of your grand and majestic ships. I even hated your stories of explorations, adventures and treasure!

I was not the well known, popular sea captain who loved adventure and enjoyed the danger.

I was just me, the only child, spoiled by a lonely, indulgent mother. I knew I was reasonably intelligent, capable of self-defense, able to read and add sums, and capable in conversation on things of commerce – everything I so needed to do well in Far Haven’s merchant society.

But as I looked out over that empty barren land, I knew little of that would help me here. The qualities I would need to survive were the ones you had in abundance.

Mine had truly never been tested.

As that realization dawned, Father, I would have given anything to see one of your ships sail into view and drop anchor.

Since that didn’t happen, I had to make a decision.

I could stay on the desolate beach where there was a very slim hope for food, and an even slimmer chance of fresh water. Perhaps a storm would blow in or I could find a stream. Maybe a fishing boat or freighter would sail by. The chances of any of that seemed remote.

I hadn’t seen a ship or boat since the Wayward Wind left, and the sky remained depressingly clear. This was the middle of autumn, when the weather was unpredictable in the New Sea and undoubtedly still quite hot in the desserts. Going inland was my only other option. I knew from your stories and my studies that the area where I had been abandoned was called the Plains of Dust, the free lands where barbarians ruled themselves, despite the constant efforts of the close-by Europeans to suppress them with the fashions, and laws, and taxes of civilization. Nomadic tribes of these barbarians and occasional merchant caravans and settlers roamed over the lands. Someone somewhere had to know where to find food and water. The booming mine city of Kimberley wasn’t that far away. Surely I could reach that.

Images of inns and taverns rose in my mind. Cool ale, a good bed, and human company lingered in my head like a sweet dream.

That vision finally settled my decision.

As much as I feared the desolate lands, I could no longer tolerate waiting on the empty, lonely shore. I had to do something or I would go mad.

I made up my mind to leave.

Once the decision was made, I decided not to waste any time. I packed my cloak, my water cask, and the biscuits in one of my bags, before I strode up the scruffy hills and dunes and into the desert, heading due south toward what I hoped was the new city of Kimberley.

The Plains of Dust

The sun hung above the horizon like a pale copper ball.

The heat shimmered in waves in the distances. The land was not covered completely with dunes as I had first thought. Here and there I saw outcroppings of a reddish stone and places where the din had scoured the earth bare over patches of rock. In scattered spots, the dust and debris of centuries had collected in pockets and formed poor soil that supported though scrabby trees, thorn bushes, cactus, even some sages and a strange hard wire-thin grass. The sky was a clear blue and looked simply huge over the dry land.

I tried not to stare at the endless expanse.

To a child of the city, of land with trees and mountains, the open spaces were frightening. Instead, I concentrated on one goal as I walked: the next clump of grass, the tree a quarter of a mile away, the rock outcropping that looked so much like a tea kettle and so on.

I listened to the crunch of my footsteps and the sand and the gravel.

There was little else to hear, save perhaps for my own labored breathing.

The land was nearly silent in the heat of the late afternoon.

Be sensible, I kept telling myself. This was just a different type of land. Whole tribes knew how to live on these plains. They had learned how to survive. That was all I had to do. Just learn. Besides, the desert and sand can’t go on forever.

Or so I had thought.

It’s a wonder I didn’t die from my own stupidity.

The first thing I learned was that I had brought too much to carry. Two bags was one too many. After only several miles, I collapsed sweating and panting in the shade of a huge rock and decided to wait for night. It would be easier to travel in the cool of the night, and I could take my time to sort through my things and decide what to leave.

Stretching out on the warm sand, I dozed for a while.

When I woke up, the world had changed. The fiery hot had cooled to almost freezing, and brilliant desert stars shone in the velvet black sky. I hurried into my cloak, shivering as I dumped what possessions I felt I could do without, and set forth again. I hoped the exercise would warm me. There was a glimmer of starlight to see by. A steady lonely breeze blew from the west.

I walked through the darkness of night, trying hard to ignore the cold and my own shivering body, the hunger that ate at my belly, the swollen blisters on my feet, and the constant thirst. My lips dried and cracked, and my tongue felt like leather.

Nevertheless I drank my water with care and regretted my earlier liberality. By dawn I was beyond exhaustion. The month spent dozing on the ship had blunted my endurance. I found a meager shelter in a cluster of thorny trees. The trees had small silver-gray leaves and slender twisted trunks. What they didn’t have was bird nests full of newly laid eggs, vines loaded heavy with edible berries, or fat juicy rabbits lurking in the undergrowth. I gnawed tiredly at another biscuit, carefully took a single sip of water, and tried to sleep in the sun baked heat.

Thirst and a small but persistent type of sting fly drove me out in the evening.

It was my second night of travel, the end of my sixth day on the Plains of Dust, and all I had left was a single cupful of water. I nursed my water and my aching feet through another night of walking.

Whether through inattentiveness or bad luck, I saw no one and nothing to drink or eat.

Every time I climbed a hill I stared to the north, east and west, hoping to see a light, but the Plains remained frighteningly empty.

Strangely empty, I thought.

Where had everyone gone? I knew this side of the continent of Africa to be sparsely populated, but there should have been someone out there!

I plodded on in spite of blisters now the size of platters on my feet; weary aching muscles, and unyielding cramps that brought tears to my eyes!

By dawn my water was gone, and I was desperate. What should I do? Keep going in the daylight in the hopes of finding help? Or should I bear and suffer the thirst through the day and try again in the cool of night?

I finally dropped everything but my cloak, a dagger, the traveler’s pack, and the last of my sea biscuits. The water was gone and the empty cask was useless. What good would clean clothes do me now? Or a change of boots? Or perhaps my favorite books? With only those few things, I kept going into the morning…

The heat soared through the morning hours until by noon it felt unbearable. I dropped my cloak somewhere, but I didn’t realize it until much later. The only reason I did not drop everything else was because they were attached to my belt. I knew very little but the constant misery in my painfully tired body and the overpowering need that drove my feet on one step at a time.

My sight dwindled down to a very small circle around me until at last all I could see was the ground. I know I staggered several times and barely managed to push myself back up. My skin felt hot, dry and leathery. My heart was racing and I felt dizzy and sick. I am going to die, I thought with regret.

It was then that I saw a dark shimmering blob in the distance. I stopped, swaying where I stood, and watched it in amazement. The blob had obviously spotted me, too, and walked closer. It was so bleary I could not decide what it was. It seemed upright and very tall.

“Excuse me, friend, do you perhaps have any water?” I tried to force the broken words past my dry and swollen tongue.

The figure replied, “I am not your friend, and I …”

I don’t know what else it was going to say because the ground suddenly came rushing closer and closer; there it was, beside my face.

I tasted dirt…

I don’t think I passed out completely because I recall hearing a voice speaking in a string of irritated words I did not understand. There was a lot of frantic movement beside me, and suddenly cold water was sprinkled over my face and gently trickled into my mouth.

My entire body reacted!

“Careful,” someone said gently in unbroken English, “Don’t drink too much.”

Don’t drink too much?

I didn’t think I would ever be able to drink too much ever again!

I wanted to plunge into a lake of fresh water and stay there for the rest of my miserable life. I wanted to drink and drink barrels of water!

But the voice that spoke to me in that unbroken English had a certain authority in its tone.

I took the advice.

My rescuer must have decided I would obey, for he thrust a waterskin into my hands. I sensed something large move beside me, then the voice said “I am on an urgent errand. I must go. Keep the water. Go east toward that range of low hills then north. You will find the city your people call Kimberley.”

“No, wait!” I croaked frantically. “Don’t leave.”

I forced my eyes open.

I saw horse hooves, black with a vertical streak of white. My eyes traveled up long grey legs to the rider, into the eyes of the loveliest woman I had ever seen. Her skin was darkly tanned and flawless; her long raven dark hair hung in long braids down her back. Bright blue eyes like polished gems glared down at me.

I knew I could not make it to Kimberley, even with a bag of water. I was simply too far gone. I could see the doubt in her open eyes – mixed with annoyance, impatience, and urgency.

“Please,” I rasped, trying to sit up. I would have groveled at her feet if I thought it would have helped, but I had a feeling this woman would respond better to a more manly style of pleading.

“I was stranded on the beach south of here. I can’t go any further. Isn’t there some way you could help me reach a settlement? Or a village? Even a large city would do!”

A slight frown teased her full mouth. She realized I was trying a slight joke. There were no large cities on this coast except for Kimberley. But she was in no mood to play with stranded travelers.

“Can you walk?” she demanded.

Rather than sit and complain about it, I staggered to my feet to show her. I made about three steps before my legs failed, and I collapsed once more in the sand.

“Fine. You will have to ride, and you will have to go with me. I do not have the time to take you to Kimberley and your people.”

That was fine with me. I didn’t mind where she wanted to go as long as it was toward more water and maybe some food.

I could only nod.

She graciously helped me onto the back of her horse without too much difficulty. Clutching the waterskin I held on as best as I could. I only hoped I still had the strength to stay on.

Turning west she moved smoothly into a canter that was the easiest gait I have ever had to ride. You know, dear Father, I have always preferred horses to ships. Her horse’s body was sleek, well muscled, and colored an unusual gray. I never knew that the barbarians of these lands even rode horses, never mind owned such fine beasts as this one!

It was only as we rode on that I noticed the woman’s garments.

A soft leather vest and a harness of some sort covered her upper body. Attached to the harness were pieces of armor, form fitted to protect vulnerable parts of her lithe body, several throwing knives, and even a war club, while slung across her back hung a short powerful-looking bow and a quiver full of arrows.

She looked more than ready for war…

As she continued her way east, I slowly sipped the water and began to feel a little more normal. I could have slept there, holding on to her, but I was afraid if I fell off she would get disgusted and leave me where I fell.

After a while my throat felt less like a bottom of a dry river bed and my tongue could move without so much difficulty.

“My name is Terrence.” I said.

“Good for you,” she replied. “What are you doing out here?”

“I told you. I was stranded on the beach. I was trying to find my way to Kimberley.”

“So you’re not from these parts.”

“Obviously not. I was on a ship from Far Haven.”

“How did you become stranded? Did your ship sink?”

I licked my cracked and swollen lips. I could lie to her and tell her some fanciful tale involving pirates or dragons or even something heroic, but an instinct stopped me. She seemed too honorable and agitated to tolerate liars.

“I insulted the captain and refused to work for him, so he put me off on the first strip of sand he found.”

For the first time since we met she laughed and I even managed to grin along with her!

“It does sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”

“If you had died on that beach, it would have. At least you tried to find your way out.”

“Yes, right out of the frying pan and into… what?” I asked.

“Where are you going, and why are you in such a hurry?”

“My chieftain has sent me with an urgent message for Wanderer.”

I shrugged. She barely fit the description of the local barbarians found in these parts of the world Father.

She laughed softly again.

“You will soon see and understand Outlander Terrence.”

Who was this Wanderer? Who was my savior, and how come she was so well spoken for a barbarian?

Honestly, I was too worn down to care.

With luck this Wanderer would have food and water and maybe a horse that I could borrow and I could go back to more civilized parts of the world. What kind of name was Wanderer anyway?

With that thought I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew our shadows were long before us and the sun was setting into the hills behind us. The land, I saw, had become even more barren and rocky. It was a harsh red color – a rusty, dirty red that looked neither pleasant nor inviting.

“How can anyone live here?” I muttered. I didn’t realize I had spoken loudly enough to be heard.

The lady’s horse trotted up a hillside and stopped where we could look down on a vast sweeping world of desert plains.

“It is because you foreigners could never understand the grace and beauty of this place. It is my home Terrence, and it both gives and takes life.” She paused as her bright blue eyes roamed the red world. “The desert is much like life Terrence. It is simply what you make of it.”

Turning around and seeing my disbelieving frown she chuckled softly. “To you it may now seem like a huge, terrible place of fear and loneliness. To those of us who live here, the children of this place, it is beautiful, a land of much difficulty, yes, but those difficulties help us and nurture us. Terrence, try to understand that it is these same difficulties that keep us safe and keep us free. I would not live anywhere else in the world.”

She lifted an arm and pointed down toward a tiny scattering of lights in a cluster of round hills. Without further words, this graceful lady of the barren deserts, my savior, rode us down a faint path along the flank of the hill and down onto the flat plain toward the cluster of hills.

The daylight had dimmed to a dusky evening.

Straightening up, I looked around and noticed a single rider sitting on the top of a low ridge to our right. The figure watched as we moved closer to the camp, but it was another rider that approached us. He stepped close enough to identify the lady then signaled with a sharp, high-pitched whistle. The first sentinel disappeared off the ridge.

The second waited for our arrival.

I tell you, Dear Father, when we entered that camp I felt a rush of fear. What had this beautiful lady brought me into?

Men dressed in but skins came out to meet us. They were all like the guard I had seen – tall, darkly tanned, and powerful. Despite the apparent tranquility of the camp, they were all well armed with their curved swords, long knives, and other barbaric weapons. I did not see any women or children – only tents, horses and men.

To me it looked like a camp of brigands and robbers.

“Katrina,” one called, “since when have you adopted pathetic city-dwellers?”

Katrina? I was stared in shock at my savior. That wasn’t a barbaric name!

A murmur of chuckles rose up from the gathered crowd as more sneers were shouted my way.

“Since a few hours ago. He took the wrong turn to Kimberley.”

More chuckles.

I quickly slid off from her horse, grateful that she did not mention the stranding incident.

Chuckling, the barbarians, including a smiling Katrina, gathered around me.

“He was in a very bad shape when I found him.” She explained.

“He’s an outlander!” a different, gruffer, voice said. “You shouldn’t have brought him here with all his civilized manners. Bah!”

Katrina swung around and glared at the speaker, I noticed her fingers were carefully touching one of her blades.

“I had no time to take him elsewhere, and I wasn’t going to leave him to die. We, the people of the dessert should know the value of life, unlike the city-dwellers.”

More thanks to you, I thought from my place in the dirt.

“You should have left him some water.” The same gruff voice said. “Then, if he died, his death would not have been your concern Katrina.”

I couldn’t see who was talking, but I took an immediate strong dislike to this fellow.

“He was in no condition to walk.” Katrina said, her hand still lightly touching a blade.

I walked a few unsteady paces forward to face the gathering tribesmen around me.

“I will leave.” I declared loudly, my voice still harsh and strained. “I can buy food, a horse. Just help me and I will be gone.”

The men laughed heartily. “Gone where, boy? There is no one out here but us, the people of the dessert!” Another shout, “You could still be gone, and we won’t have to help you!” the speaker had large eyes that bulged in a long, narrow head and a nose as straight and slender as an axe. He was the grumbler in the group, the one I disliked so much.

Another man emerged from a tent near the fire and strode towards us. From the way the men moved out of his way, I assumed he was the leader of this band. Something in his walk, balanced, cat-like, in the gleam of his dark eyes made me stand up straight as he approached me.

Katrina bowed her head respectfully at him.

“Wanderer, I have urgent news from my chieftain.”

The tribesman nodded, but before Katrina could continue, the gruff-voiced axe-nosed man pushed forward. Shadows thrown from the firelight spread from the sharp angles of his narrow face.

“What do we do with this one?” he demanded. “He has no right to be here.”

Wanderer calmly looked at Katrina before addressing axe-nose.

“He is here by the right of our allies.” His voice was calm, edged in steel.

Turning towards me, he studied me, from my worn boots to unkept red hair with dark eyes that seemed to pierce right through my soul.

I don’t know how old he was, Father, but I guess he was close to your age – mid fifties or more. Years of living in the harsh climates of the desert plains had worn his skin to leather and etched the lines of his dour expression deep into his hawk like face. He was tall – taller even than the men who rode with him – thin as a desert pine, and still strong in spite of his ears. The desert had been hard on this man, life had been hard on him, yet it had strengthened him, worn away the excess fat until he was as lean and tough as the rocks around him. I won’t say I liked him at first sight, but I felt an immediate respect that still remains with me to this day.

What he saw in me, I still don’t know.

“Bring him to my tent. The healer can look at him. I’ll decide what to do when I have heard Katrina’s news.”

The men bowed their heads respectfully and turned away to return to their duties. Katrina gave me a small reassuring smile, and lending me her strong arm, helped me to hobble to the chieftain’s tent.

Since I had never been inside a plainsman’s tent, I did not know what to expect. What I saw was hardly the lap of luxury, yet it looked efficient and comfortable enough. Small lamps that hung from the tent poles illuminated the tent with a warm light. Thick mats covered the floor and helped keep the shelter warm at night. Curtains of a loosely woven material were hung to separate a sleeping area, and a low table and cushions were placed near the door for guests. I assumed this was a temporary camp, so this was probably a smaller traveling tent carried around with the men.

The entrance, while tall enough for an average man was simply too small for Wanderer!

Cushions were brought for us all to sit on. I gratefully sat down near the sleeping curtain, while Wanderer, a few other men, and Katrina sat around the table.

A young man brought plates of steaming meat to the table – and bless him forever – jugs of wine and water!

When he offered a cup to me, I drained the vessel in one swallow and held it out for more. The man shrugged, grinned, and refilled it. I learned shortly that one should not drown in wine on a dehydrated stomach.

Another man entered and bowed respectfully to Wanderer. Kneeling beside me, he tilted his head but said nothing as he carefully removed my worn boots and examined my feet with his fingers. I know it was rude, very much so, but I stared at him in surprise.

He was a small man, unlike the other tribesmen.

I’d guess about forty, and he had a small trained falcon perched on his shoulder. Those minor facts were interesting in themselves, but one other thing caught my attention and held it. His eyes. They were a milky white and obviously useless. Despite this affliction, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing! His long fingers touched and stroked my feet, locating the blisters and the wound from the slimy-stinging creature. He felt my limbs and touched my face and throat; he rubbed my skin between his fingers.

All without a single word.

At last he laid his palms down on my chest and squatted beside me for a long while.

I held still.

I felt no threat from this strange man. On the contrary, he made me feel comfortable and relaxed. I watched his face as his expression grew very thoughtful. When he was finished, he sat back, and he and his bird gazed at me for a moment or two, before he made his way over to Wanderer.

The plainsman and his guests were occupied with their meal – food before business is a custom of the tribes – but the chief paused to listen to the healer’s report. I couldn’t hear what he was saying clearly, something about the exposure and rest (I was all for that) and healing. Wanderer stared at the man, glanced at me, looked back at the man, and then studied me again for a while, his thick brows knitted intently.

Finally he nodded and went back to his meal.

I thought they were just talking about letting me stay for a day or two to rest before I had to go, so you can imagine my surprise when this tribal healer came back and said in a quiet, completely serious voice, “My chieftain has given you permission to stay with us for a time. I would like to train you in the healing arts.”

I admit that I was so surprised I laughed out loud.

Healing arts? Was this man insane? I had never shown any interest in the healing arts. What in the blue blazes was he talking about?

Fortunately he did not take offence at my reaction. Sitting cross-legged beside me, he took my hand and laid it palm down against his.

His bird watched me intently.

“I am a healer and spiritual advisor of my people.” He said in his soft, un-aggressive voice. “I know you do not believe yet.” He smiled softly before continuing, “The places of your birth are still strong in your heart. You are lost and confused. All I ask is that you listen.”

The amusement died on my lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Katrina watching me carefully.

Did she know what was going on? Obviously Wanderer did, and he took it seriously enough to give me leave to stay with them, which was rather unusual. The men of the plains were not normally so welcome and open to strangers, especially those born in the crowded cities of civilization.

“Why?” I asked, more abruptly than I intended. “I am no healer, no leader.”

He gazed at me with unseeing eyes, and I felt I had to add more. “I do not believe in any of that.”

The man’s clouded eyes stared unblinking at my face.

“Not yet. In time you can understand if that is what you desire. I am strong in the ways of healing and spirit. It is my talent to be able to read the strengths and weaknesses of a human soul. Your talent is like a vein of gold, much like those found in our sacred caves – buried deep, but rich and worth of the effort of finding it. It is something to hold on to.” He paused as a silence fell over us.

“So I ask you this: Come with us for a time. In the silence of the desert, perhaps you can learn to listen to the voice of your heart.”

Father, I did not know what to say to this man. In my seventeen years the only work I had ever considered – and rejected – was something in your world: a sailor, a trader, a merchant. But one month on the Wayward Wind had shown me I was no sailor.

The sea did not sing in my blood as it did in yours. Nothing else had occurred to me, and certainly not healing. Was it all not tom-foolery, and what did I know about it, a mere boy?

And yet… there was something pleasant in the thought.

The suggestion delved into my mind despite my skepticism, it stayed there pricking my interest. No one had ever told me I had potential. Well, besides Mother. But honestly, it all sounded rather ridiculous.

The healer lifted a finger to the falcon’s breast and gently stroked its speckled feathers. The small bird blinked its black eyes once or twice and continued to stare at me.

“Shall I tell you what I see?” the man asked. He went on without waiting for a reply. “You are of medium height, stocky and strong. Your hair is red. Your face is well featured and freckled beneath the sunburn. You are young, seventeen or eighteen years I believe, and from your clothes and manners, you are from an English city in the north. Beneath your shirt you have a silver chain around your neck with something hanging from it.”

It was my turn to stare.

How did he know all that?

True, he could discern some of that by touch and by the accent in my speech, but how did he see my hair or the freckles or the color of the chain around my neck?

He chuckled, breaking the silence.

“I also practice the arts of speaking to animals, not only healing. Healing is not for everyone, young Terrance. It takes courage and will. I believe you have the courage. All I ask is that you stay long enough to learn if you have the will.”

He handed me a cup of wine.

“Sleep well, boy. Tomorrow we ride for Crooked Sky.”

He left me gazing at the space where he had been.

Crooked Sky?

That name meant nothing to me. My thoughts whirled, running around and around. Healing! I laughed.

Who was he fooling?

Barbarians with horses and weapons, speaking English!

I slid deeper into the cushion and felt it mold comfortably around me. My head grew heavier. I think I drank the wine, for I could still taste it on my tongue. It was delicious after six days of dust and salt and sea biscuits.

The last thing I remember was hearing raised voices and wondering what all the yelling was about…

I woke the next morning to blue sky, hot sun, and a thundering headache. I can usually hold my drink, but two large cups of wine on an empty stomach and a dehydrated body can hit a person like a smith’s four pound hammer.

For a very long time I could not lift my head or open my eyes for fear my brain will explode. I lay still, gritting my teeth and listened to the sounds around me.

I could hear men talking, the sounds of horses’ hooves on sand and gravel, the squeak of harnesses and saddles, the groan of wagon wheels, and somewhere, high above I heard the cry of a falcon.

I wondered about the noise, but it took me some time before I realized my body was moving in odd ways. The movement felt similar to the roll of a small ship, a freighter perhaps, and for one short moment I feared I was back on the Wayward Wind. Finally, sense moved past the pain in my thundering head, and I knew I was still in the desert.

I opened my eyes – and quickly slammed them shut.

A groan of misery escaped past my swollen and cracked lips.

Someone close by chuckled. “The lost boy awakes.”

If the speaker had not been my rescuer of the day before I might have picked up the closest weapon and struck the mirth from the voice.

Instead, I shaded my eyes from the brilliant light and slowly peeled them open.

Katrina’s lovely face beamed down at e from the side of the low cart.

Don’t worry, Dear Father, I haven’t lost any sense of civilization nor my manners. I know she is much older than me and there is simply no hope for anything beyond friendship between us, yet I can’t help taking delight in her beauty. She definitely was not like any of the barbarians, and I doubted she shared the same lineage as the people of the plains. Perhaps she came to them as an orphan. In the end her heritage mattered little to me, she is simply a truly magnificent woman and warrior and barbarian.

Anyway, I came to and found myself lying on top of a pile of long bundles laid on the bed of a low cart. Apparently, the men had packed their camp up around me, dumped me on top of the tents, and left their campsite at dawn. The healer’s request to take me with them was still honored.

The warrior woman shook her head, a small smile playing across her face. “Drink this.” She ordered and handed me a waterskin. “Danian said this would help ease your pain.”

I eyed it as if it was a snake. “Danian? The healer? He said a lot of things.”

“He knows what he is talking about, Outlander. Just because he wears barbaric robes and uses a bird to see does not mean he is a fool.”

Unlike me, I thought. The realization finally dawned, and I made the connection between the falcon, the blind man, and his proclaimed skill with animals.

Of course!

The bird saw me clearly last night. I pushed myself upright and, ignoring the thumping pain in my head and the nausea in my stomach, I took the waterskin, and swallowed the drink.

It tasted revolting in spite of the obvious attempt to sweeten it.

Katrina flashed another one of her brilliant smiles at the look on my face.

“We think he ages it in horse dung.” She informed me, chuckling softly. “You should have tasted it before he started adding the honey.”

Horse dung or not, it worked.

In short order my headache settled to a mere gentle thudding, and my stomach decided it could stand a little food. My eyes finally found a focus. I was on a horse-drawn cart at the tail end of a long line of riders.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

The sun was riding high overhead, and I could not tell which way we were traveling.

“Crooked Sky tonight. Tomorrow we will reach the Grandfather Tree. The chieftain of my tribe has called a gathering.”

I listened and did not understand a word in three.

“Huh?” was all I could manage.

Katrina might have been annoyed and in a rush yesterday, but today she was in no real hurry. She answered my questions seriously…

“Crooked Sky is an oasis east of here beside a high ridge that gives it its name. The Grandfather Tree is also called the World Tree. It is a sacred place to us and a central gathering point for all the plainsmen of the different tribes.” She looked at me seriously before continuing, “We have received urgent news from the east that must be discussed, so my grandfather called the meeting.”

“You said your chieftain called the gathering.”

“They are the same Terrance.”

“What are you going to talk about?”

“War.”

CROOKED SKY

We reached the oasis at dusk, just in time for me to see why it is called Crooked Sky.

The ridge Katrina mentioned lay to the west of the oasis a mile or so away. Worn by erosion and centuries of wind, the top of the ridge was jagged like an old wood saw. The light of the setting sun glowed behind it in shades of gold and bronze, sending beams of light shinning between the ragged teeth. It was breathtakingly beautiful, until the light faded and the ridge turned black in the night.

So much of the desert is like that Father. Yes, Katrina and Danian had also told me how much life is like that. One moment it shows you a sight more magnificent than you ever imagined, then in the blink of your eyes, the beauty is gone and there is only the desolation and loneliness.

The plainsmen quickly set up camp near the tiny pool of water that made this an oasis and started their cooking fires. Guards rode out to take positions, and the horses were fed and watered. I felt obliged to do what I could do to help, and while I was not exactly welcomed with joy, the men accepted my inexperienced attempts with patience.

Their reaction to me made me reconsider my thoughts about Danian.

Yes, Wanderer had accepted his word about me, but these plainsmen had also, which made me realize the healer was granted a great deal of respect. Most of these men had been ready to dump me along the road yesterday, and it was no secret that there had been very little love-lost between the new settlers and the barbarians of Zuider Afrika. Yet, today they were willing to tolerate me. All on the word of a short, blind man who talked to birds! Not even Katrina held such power over these men and she clearly was highly respected.

Danian found me shortly after nightfall.

The evening’s designated cook had set me to work turning the spit that held a haunch of deer over the fire. I didn’t see the short healer until he tapped me on the arm and sat down beside me. His falcon perched quietly on his shoulder.

For a while we said nothing.

We watched each other quietly while I turned the meat for the evening meal.

“Thank you for the drink this morning.” I ventured at last.

“It helps,” he replied, “if you ignore the taste.”

I shifted in my seat, not knowing what else to say. A thousand questions tumbled in my head, yet, I did not want to commit myself even to the point of showing curiosity.  I was stuck with this band in the desert until they reached somewhere where I could leave them.

What if I said I was interested in Danian’s offer and Wanderer did to me what my own father and Captain Zimmerman had done? I’d be stuck again. Alone. Lost. So I kept my mouth shut and let the healer chose what to say.

He seemed to be in no real hurry.

He sat with his legs crossed and his head tilted as if listening to something. After a while he nodded and began to speak in his light, calming voice. He talked about many things father. About his tribe and his long-dead wife, of the desert that held him in its heart, of the first time he saved Wanderer’s life, and of the patient falcon that served him so obediently. Through his long rambling narrative I started understanding the thread of his life.

He is a good man, Father – steady, loyal, and infinitely patient – all those things Mother tried to find in a tutor for me. She should have looked on the desert plains of Zuider Afrika.

He also had a depth of wisdom I find amazing.

I caught myself rapt in his words, waiting for more, wanting more. Was it just his voice or truly some kind of magic that caught me? Or was it much simpler than that?

I had been alone for so long I craved friendship and attention, and here was a man of dignity and intelligence who was interested in me.

When he finished with his tale, he asked me questions about my life, and before I realized what I was doing, I spilled out the entire seventeen years of my existence. I didn’t even notice when the cook came back, took the spit from my hand, and hacked the meat from the bone to serve the men.

We talked long into the night, and when I was too exhausted to continue, the healer gave me more of his foul liquid and a blanket and said goodnight with a gentle smile. I lay down by the fire for the first time in months, I fell asleep content.

Screams awoke me.

I bolted upright in my blanket and saw the camp around me in chaos.

Leaping forms charged in among the tents, waving torches and swords, and gleaming muskets. They hacked at the tents and set fire to the cloth. Flames leaped up, their glow illuminating the attackers.

A few of the plainsmen staggered out of their tents to try and defend themselves.

I almost screamed in terror when one of the attackers saw me by the dim embers of the cook fire, bounding towards me with a gleam in his dark eyes.

Father, I was frightened out of my wits.

I scrambled out of my blanket and tried to find my dagger – as if that would do anything against a scimitar-wielding crazed barbarian raider!

I should have bolted for the nearest cover.

The barbarian raider lifted his weapon to hack me in two.

He was almost on me when staggered and clawed at his throat. An arrow protruded from his neck. Gurgling, he fell on his back and gulped vainly for his last air…

I stared stupidly, until I heard hoof beats behind me.

Katrina came into the light, astride on her mighty horse, grabbed my arm, and hauled me onto the horse. I held on for dear life, as notched and fired one arrow after another into the struggling mass of men.

She never missed once Father! Never!

More men came out of the darkness from behind the barbarian army. I no longer heard the terrifying thunder of muskets booming in the darkness. The fight was ferocious, for the raiders were better armed and clothed than the plainsmen.

At some time Katrina ran out of arrows. Without a word, she helped me of her mighty horse, handed me a bloodied sword, and galloped into the raging fight with nothing but a small round shield and another sword she had picked up.

I had never handled a sword in my life, but I knew what would happen to me if the raiders overwhelmed my new found friends. Screaming like a maniac, I charged the nearest man and by some good stroke of fortune, I plunged the blade deep into his back between two pieces of ill-fitting armor.

The man who had been facing him yelled, “Good one Outsider!”

I wrenched my sword out of the dying man and sneered back at the plainsman. It was the complainer, axe-nose, who had wanted to leave me behind. He curled his lip into a growl and whirled to face another enemy.

I found another raider and continued to fight in an inept way, but fight I did Dear Father. I think you would have been proud of me. When the Plainsmen killed the last raider and paused to take measure of the battlefield, I think they were all a little surprised to see me still standing. I was pleased, too, and exhausted and exhilarated all at once.

I saw with relief that Wanderer and Katrina were alive and unhurt, but when I looked for Danian I did not see him…

My heart sank.

Even though I had not yet made up my mind about his offer, I liked him and I did not want to find him among the dead.

My sword fell from my hand.

Could life be this cruel? Will I be alone all over again, just when I had thought that I had found a person that could understand me!

I scrambled over the bodies and among the ruins of the burned tents. I searched frantically, tears welling into my eyes, until Wanderer took my arm and wordlessly pointed to a place beyond the light of the torches and fires.

It was the longest hardest walk in my life.

I found Danian in the farthest edge of light where the darkness was almost complete.

He knelt in the sand, rocking on his knees, his milky blind eyes full of tears.

He sensed me, I think, for his falcon wasd not with him and he could not have seen me. He took my outstretched hand and pulled me beside him with alarming strength.

“There are so many dead here!” he murmured in a broken voice as hollow as the grave. “I see them ,t he fallen, my friends, my enemies. What a great loss of life we have suffered tonight!”

He paused, coughing before continuing, “Their souls should be leaving this world, but they can’t.” Tears racked their way through his body as the short blind healer started shaking beside me, clenching my hand tightly. “Why can’t they leave? See. Look! There is Alai! His family should be waiting for him. He should be pleased. There is grief and terror on his face now.” Danian shook his head in the darkness beside me. “He is being called, he says. Called by whom? Who is this who can control the spirits of the dead? Where are you going?”

His last question was a shout of pain, and then he simply let go of my hand and collapsed on the ground.

Frightened, I picked him up and carried him to my blanket.

He lay trembling and drew in great lungfulls of air until his body slowly calmed and his eyes dried.

I watched him, watched his face as he took control of his emotions.

In less time than I would have imagined, he sat up and gripped my arm with a ferocious strength.

“Come help me,” he ordered, “We will not allow any more to join the dead tonight.”

Through what remained of the night, he helped the wounded and true to his word, he did not lose another man. I, of course, had no idea what to do beyond fetching water and wrapping bandages, but he showed me everything he did and explained his craft so that even I could understand. He explained to me that he could not use his gift of healing because the dead stole power from him every time he tried to use it. All I knew that night was that the healing miracles he performed was bloody, painful and messy. And I was fascinated.

Believe it or not, Dear Father, your wayward son found something that caught his attention and took a hold of his imagination like nothing else before. There were ten wounded men in the camp after the battle. Danian and I amputated an arm; cleaned stitched and salved numerous slashes; repaired a smashed hand; treated a head wound; removed three musket-balls and did what we could for half a dozen burns.

Around us the plainsmen carried away the dead raiders, buried their own dead, and took stock of their remaining gear, and through it all I only had thought of Danian and the wounded.

When we departed from the oasis the next morning, we left twelve men behind in a mound of rocks and sand.

The burned tents left scorch marks on the red earth. Instead of tents, the cart now carried the worst of the wounded. I feared I might have to walk, but Wanderer came by as we were preparing to leave. He did not touch me or say anything. He simply nodded at me and handed me the reigns of a horse left master-less after the attack.

I knew enough about the plainsmen and their love for their horses to know he was offering me his thanks.

Danian brought me some robes that had survived the fires to replace my own stained, bloodied clothes.

Dressed in the long flowing robes and riding a desert horse continued the change I felt within me.

I was no longer the spoilt boy who had left far Haven six weeks ago, but I still didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to be.

Did I really want to commit my life to learning Danian’s ways? Or was this just a new fancy that would fade within a few months? I didn’t know, but at least I could think about letting time and destiny take its own course…

I am starting to listen to the voice of my heart.

During our journey that day I asked Katrina about the raiders.

I knew they were normally roving bands of outlaws and thugs that has found their way to Zuider Afrika. Sometimes they would attack large towns and villages, preying on the settlers that made their ways to the newly found gold and diamante mines.

Never before had I heard about them this far inland. To me that troop seemed too large and too well organized even for brigands.

Katrina agreed.

She told me of what had been happening on the Plains of Dust this summer.

By the silver moon, father, did you know any of this?

I used to pay very little attention to the events outside of Far Haven. I had little idea of what had been going on.

Did you know that some explorers found caves filled with gold and diamonds? Did you know that Wanderer helped them? Katrina told me about the adventure. She even told me that Spain, France and England are now waging war over Zuider Afrika! Kimberley’s new found riches seemed to turn the whole world upside down. According to Katrina, the reason this big gathering is being called remains still unknown to most of them, suffice to know that it was of the utmost importance. She even told me about the fleets of French and Spaniards with their roving armies of brigands that had been seen more and more frequently, harassing outlanders and plainsmen alike.

It seemed Katrina was right.

I had left Far Haven to fall right into the middle of an impending war.

THE GRANDFATHER TREE

We had only been traveling a few hours when I caught my first glimpse of the Grandfather Tree.

When Katrina first mentioned it, I thought she meant a mere tree of some sort, an old gnarled desert tree of some sort. I certainly was not prepared for the sight that caught my attention. It was not just a tree; it is an enormous tree!

All that day the tree loomed larger on the flat horizon until be evening, when we drew up under its great branches, it filled the entire sky with its enormous canopy.

As I sat on my new horse and stared up the mass f branches and leaves overhead, Danian rode up beside me.

“Once some tribesmen decided to see how big the trunk was at its base, so they found some warriors to spread out their arms and link hands around the trunk. It took over a hundred grown men to finally encircle the tree!”

“I never knew trees could grow this big.” I said in awe. What an understatement!

Danian smiled softly, his milky eyes seem to glow in the shade of the Grandfather Tree.

“They don’t. Not here my friend. This tree was a gift from the desert. It is very old, and its roots grow deep into the ground. Its branches lift towards the stars.” The blind healer turned and smiled at me. “If you are quiet, Outlander friend, and you listen, the tree may grant you a gift.”

I looked at him bewildered. “What sort of gift?”

All I got from him was a small knowing smile.

Although there were chieftains and groups from many clans and local tribes, there was plenty of room for all under the great tree. No one lit fires under it, for it was considered bad manners or bad luck or something to burn the wood of the tree or to disturb it with smoke.

We ate a cold dinner, and that night the plainsmen met just to socialize. They traded stories and songs and skins of wine. Once again, that food-before-business custom.

Nothing was said of the attack on Wanderer’s band, or the growing troubles to the north, or the rumors of war, or why they were all gathered there.

The evening was peaceful and restful and allowed the representatives of each group to renew acquaintances and familiarize themselves with who was there.

I realized, watching them, that this social evening helped set the stage for the next day. These tribes are not as barbaric as some city folk like to believe.

Naturally my red hair was noted and treated with some humor. Although they did not like the presence of an outlander, they respected Wanderer and Danian enough to tolerate me.

Apparently, Katrina also helped my cause by telling the people about my willingness to fight the raiders and to help Danian after the battle.

They seemed to respect a person who could both fight to kill and save lives with healing knowledge. I was quickly becoming well known among the gathered plainsmen.

That night, I slept soundly under the tree, still wondering what Danian meant by a gift.

The next day, the gathering became more serious.

The chieftains, healers, and all the important leaders of the area, met under the tree. I do not know what was said, because of course I was not allowed to attend. I was there due to the generosity of an important leader, and not because I was one!

I spent the day grooming my new horse and taking him for a ride. He was a delightful animal, a deep golden brown, well trained and a joy to ride. Katrina joined me for a while before returning to her clan’s camp to wait for her grandfather to finish the meeting.

The next day was much the same.

I’m not sure what they all found to talk about, but they went on at length. I could feel the tension mounting under the great tree, and I fully expected to hear war-horns and see them all march north, but nothing happened. I began to wonder if they were all waiting for something. Maybe a sign or more information or for someone to make up his mind…

Katrina would tell me little, and Danian, when he came back from the meetings, simply told me to wait and keep my mind open.

Open to what?

Shields and bucklers, that man could confuse even a wise man!

On the third day of the gathering, a messenger rode into the camps, and I knew that finally the waiting was over. He wore a filthy blood-stained British uniform, and he came in on a dusty horse exhausted from the long ride. He was immediately escorted to the meeting.

Curious, I edged close to the seated groups of men to hear what was going on.

I couldn’t hear it all, but I heard enough.

A large army of desert raiders, mercenaries and French soldiers was gathering in the north. It would be moving towards the Dust Plains before long directly toward the rich mining city of Kimberley. No one was sure who led it, and there was no mention of any British armies marching to halt them. Even worse still, was that some scouts reported several Spanish armies joining up with the French force.

A cold chill swept through me in spite of the warmth of the day. My decision had just become more complicated. Instead of a quiet period of study with a barbarian healer, I was now faced with a war in a land that was not mine.

Father, I did not know what to do.

I slipped away from the meeting and walked out into the desert, to think, to run away, to hide.

Before I left home, there would have been no decision. I would have wanted no part of a talent that required effort and courage, nor would I have considered participating in a war.

Why would I want to include myself into someone else’s fight?

Would I ever have the courage and wisdom to see it through, if I did decide to stay and help the plainsmen?

I have always been a coward Father. I was not the brave and charismatic man you are.

Yet, after weeks away from home I was debating all of that and much more. I had nearly died out there in the desert, all alone; that can change one’s outlook at life considerably.

Around and around in my head, my thoughts ran wild like horses. Go or stay. Would the plainsmen let me go? Stay or go? Would they even want me to stay? Does Danian need an apprentice now, or would he prefer not to be burdened by the ignorance of an outlander? What did I want to do? Could I face the terrors of battle? This time, I knew, it won’t be just against barbaric raiders ill equipped, but also against organized and civilized soldiers. Soldiers armed not with clubs and bows, but with muskets and canons. Could I really be a healer? Why would I even want to, get involved with a people that could only see me as a red-headed outsider.

Father, you would have known what to do. To you it would have been easy, and you would have made the right choice, but now it was just me, all alone. And I had to make a decision. Even if it was the wrong one. I had to.

The sun was setting into the west when I finally came to a decision of sorts.

I would go home, I thought. I could go with the British soldier that had arrived earlier. He could easily take me to a town where I could arrange transport.

The plainsmen did not need me, an ignorant and inexperienced outlander, and I was not ready to face something like this.

Someday, perhaps, I could come back and find Danian.

You are running away! A small thought spoke in my head, and it spoke with your voice Father. That’s what you would have said if you had been there with me.

“I know,” I said to the darkening sky. “But what else can I do? I am me, a young and inexperienced…” what? A boy? I was no longer the red-headed youth of a few months back, and yet, neither was I a man.

I returned to the camp to find it in an uproar.

The clans and tribes were leaving to gather all their fighting men.

The Plains of Dust prepared for war.

I wandered into Wanderer’s camp and sat in my saddle like a lost child while the others busied themselves with their duties.

No one spoke to me.

No one told me what to do.

No one even looked at me

I soon saw that Wanderer was not planning to leave that night. He would pull out the next day. His band was going north to scout the position and numbers of the invaders. Of the British soldier I saw no trace.

Danian came to me at dusk.

“Tomorrow, if you choose to go, you may take the horse. Ride south two days and you will find a small settlement that will help you. From there you can find your way home. The English scout will not be leaving Wanderer’s band.” Danian looked at me with milky blind eyes. “Soon these lands will be a battlefield.”

I hadn’t said a word to him. Did he know already? I looked into his blind eyes.

“Do you want me to go?”

I know he read all of my meanings in that simple question.

He put a steady hand on my shoulder and said very softly, “My offer will last as long as I live. You alone must decide when you are ready to accept it.”

I sighed and shook my head slowly.

I could not tell him about my decision, not yet…

I paced a great deal that evening and tried to think until the chill of the desert drove me to my blankets. I threw myself down under the tree and tried to sleep.

The night grew very dark and intensely still. I tossed in my blankets, but sleep eluded me. The camp was too quiet.

By turning my head I could see the mounds of sleeping men, the ghostly forms of tents, and the occasional movement of a sentry moving watchfully in the dark.

Yet, I could not hear a thing.

Listen, Danian had told me.

Open your mind and listen to the voice of your heart outlander.

“How can I do that?” I asked the darkness.

I rolled over onto my back and stared up the great canopy of leaves above me.

You are never truly alone…

For a while I lay motionless, alone, merely gazing up at the tree.

Time passed before I became aware of a sound.

It was deep as thunder, as soft as a lullaby, a voiceless song in the lonely desert night.

It drew me out of my blankets and into the sand and rocks beyond the great tree.

A silver crescent moon hung low above the hills.

Frost glimmered on the dunes and scrubby little plnts.

An intense feeling of loniliness surrounded me.

I saw my breath condense on the frosty night air, but I did not feel cold. Behind me the tree sang to me and urged me on until I stood on a high hill overlooking the Plains.

Deep in the dark desert night the distances seemed so near.  Stars blazed alive like small glittering jewel in my grasp. Sand melted into the black pool of the night sky.

Far to the north I saw an awesome mass of seething storm clouds pierced by silver spears of lightning. The storm grew and spread from east to west and flew over the sky towards me, its towering clouds flared with red, orange and silver light.

I saw streams of lightning struck the earth, and in the brilliant flashes of light beneath the clouds I saw two large armies locked in a struggle and a dragon fighting for its life.

I could not see the colour of the dragon, it looked gray in the flaring light of the storm, but it could not fly, and it fought with a fury fired by desperation.

I turned to run.

I had to flee back to the safety of the great tree and to warn the remaining plainsmen, to warn Danian!

As I turned I saw nothing.

I hesitated.

A horse, one that looked remarkably like the one Wanderer had given me, galloped out of the seething battle.

Its eyes rolled white with terror and blood ran down its foreleg and along its flank. The steed raced up the hill to me and came to a sliding halt.

Come!

I heard the word in my head, as clearly as a voice shouting by my ear.

Come!

The voice screamed again, a cry of pain.

They need you now!

I did not hesitate.

I did not ask who needed me. I knew now. I knew. I knew.

I mounted the frightened horse and clung desperately to its mane as he whirled around again and charged down the hills and onto the plains, towards the seething armies locked in a battle to the death.

I knew, without glancing back, that behind me the great tree burst alight, wrapped in a blanket of orange and red writhing flames.

I knew.

“Terrance,” a different voice this time – one alive and speaking softly close beside me.

I opened my eyes and saw Danian sitting cross-legged beside my blanket. I looked up and saw the great tree spread out over me, its leaves turning green in the growing light of day.

“It was a dream.” I said in wonder.

“It was a vision, a sign.” Danian told me. “A gift.”

I looked at him curiously. “Did you too see it? Do you know what was in the vision, the dream?”

He shook his head slowly. “The visions are always personal. It is meant only for you one Terrence and should remain yours alone.”

“What did you mean by a sign? This wasn’t just an image from the imagination-sort of dream, was it?”

“No.” he chuckled gently, “It was more than that. If you are strong in spirit, you will receive visions of things to come, clues of a sort.”

A sigh slipped out.

A dragon?

Spears of lightning?

I wasn’t very pleased with the look of things to come, but at least I know; now I know what I was going to do.

And so, Dear Father, I am writing this letter to you from under the shade of the Grandfather Tree, somewhere on the Plains of Dust in Zuider Afrika.

Katrina told me some warrior of the WindWalker clan would be going south to gather their warriors and maybe even to rouse the settlers of Kimberley against the new threat coming from the north. They will take my letter and pass it on to the first freighter out of the city.

With luck, this letter will reach you before too long.

Father, I wanted to tell you where I was and what I was going to do before I go. The Grandfather Tree, or perhaps some other spirit did not give me a vision of my own survival, but it didn’t warn me that I would die either. I go now, with Danian, wanderer and Katrina, into the desert and hope for the best.

For this is what you have taught me father, what else does a man need, but a destiny and friends to accompany him along the way? For what better thing can a man live for, than to serve and protect his fellow men?

Your son,

Terrence.