Of The Desert

The man reined in his horse as the silver house came into view. The wind blasted into his face, hot and full of stinging grains of sand. He felt them not, for they had hit him in the same way for the better part of fifteen years. He’d been out in the desert long before the wars, never stirring from his sandy hideaway when the soldiers came to this world, brief as their stay was. He’d been here for the greater part of his adult life, a ghostly figure drifting among the sand dunes. He was a vague legend to many of the people in the towns, the man of the desert. He was the catcher of all things lost. Should a horse or other livestock wander into the desert they would always reappear with this mans hand on their shoulder leading them back. He would take some small payment and leave again, to wherever he lived. He caught men and women to, those who fled for whatever purpose. Always they came back, sometimes living, sometimes not. But always they came back. And always the man collected what he was owed and disappeared back into the sands. No-one knew where he had come from, but the whispers still drifted through the towns. He was a government fugitive, he was an alien in human form, he was a Reaver become sane once again. But they were just rumors, without a shred of fact or truth as so many rumors are. The people who had dealings with him in the towns said he spoke little, never using more words than were needed. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered with a face and hands that looked like they had spent their whole life outdoors and hard at work. Under his wide-brown hat, which he rarely removed, hid a scraggly mop of sun-bleached blonde hair. His eyes were the most electric blue and seemed to pierce those unfortunate enough to be caught in their gaze to their very soul. The rumors said that he could read your mind with those eyes, tell if you were lying, if you were skimping on payment. Perhaps in this instance they were right, for he always knew the value of a job and held out for more when he felt he was being cheated of his due. That being said few tried to cheat him of his due. There had been some in the beginning, who thought him a fool, a madman who lived in the desert. They had died, found murdered in their beds. No one had tried to cheat the man after that. As far as anyone knew he had no family, but there the rumors worked as well. He kept them in a cave in desert, it was said, or the fact was that he hid there to escape them. There was no knowledge to the rumors, just talk, but all to often, talk became accepted as fact. What people had seen though was how good he was with a gun, the fastest draw and sharpest aim around. It was said he could shoot holes in coins in the air. He rode a magnificent horse as well, a desert bred gelding, fully twenty-one hands high and a sleek black. The two often rode as though one being; so responsive was the animal to its masters needs. In the towns no one knew him. There was one place where he could be himself, where the rumors did not matter, where he could find comfort and acceptance. The Silver House, The Heart of Gold where Nandi and her whores lived. Three times a week he visited. It was the girls there who knew him. He became a different man inside those walls. He did not have a favourite but all the girls loved him and wanted to be there as his next. He was always kind and gentle and after he had had his time in the rooms upstairs he would sit in the common room for hours, telling stories of the beauty of the desert. How the sands could light up in a million hues of glorious colour in the night. How the creatures of the sands were both enchanting and deadly, the golden-scaled snakes, the phosphorescent spiders, the hawks and eagles that soared in the skies. He sang as well, a strong clear voice that seemed to echo throughout the house after he had finished. He sang of loss and longing, of love and of tales of great daring. Every girl in the room sighed and wished he would choose them when he next came. That next visit was today. But today was different. Today would be his last visit. He rode into the courtyard of the Heart of Gold, tied his wonderful horse up to the hitching post and went inside for the last time. Moving through the house, he said farewell to each and every one of the girls, not caring who he disturbed in the process. He kissed Nandi on both cheeks, told her to stay safe, gathered the few possessions he had there and left, for the last time. Everyone one of the girls came and saw him off, riding into the fading sunlight and shifting sands. None of them ever saw him again, but likewise none of them ever forget the man of the desert and the kindness and respect he had shown each and every one of them. In the golden sands a solitary figure rode across the dunes, never knowing where he would stop.