Of Sands and Ghosts

[Ganondorf]

Five years ago

The wind was truly vindictive today. Every time Miros pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose, trying to block out the sand that skipped over the red dunes on the breeze and into his face, a sudden gust would find a small gap between the cloth and his face and rip it free. Not to mention the sun’s rampage. It was Mesa Roja – it was hot all the time. But the heat from the sunlight burned worse than usual. He had done this trail hundreds of times over, and rarely would the elements be this spiteful.

His camel plodded along, one hoof after another, leaving footprints in the sands that would vanish amidst the endless winds in mere minutes. The old girl was slowing down. He couldn’t blame her. It was a rough day for travelling, and they were near their end for this leg of the journey.

Miros looked over his shoulder. His charge – Rali - still followed at a close distance, his face buried beneath folds of fabric, only his squinting eyes visible. A cloak fluttered in the breeze, hiding his large frame. He was quite muscular for a man his age – maybe 50 or 55, if Miros had to guess – with a grey beard that cut off near his chest. Despite that, there was something eerily off-putting about his eyes. They looked young – much younger than a man of his age. It wasn’t unheard of for people to hold onto youthful appearances as they advanced in years, but something didn’t sit right about that gaze. Miros had no idea why.

Regardless, the man’s camel had saddlebags stuffed full of items. Miros hadn’t found out what he was hauling, but his best guess was provisions. Most of the customers he guided from Karim to his humble village were after one of three things; money, fame, or both. Legends told of the civilisations that once thrived in these harsh deserts and many fools embarked on expeditions to be the one to rediscover them. In Miros’s experience, they either never came back or returned empty-handed and despondent.

Rali would be no different, so why not help himself to his belongings when an opportunity arose? There was no point letting it all go to waste, buried beneath layers of sand, never to be seen again.

Despite the sun nearing the horizon, its heat still beat down on them. In around an hour, the red sands would transition from broiling to freezing. Without the constant battering of the sun, the desert lost all of its bite. Well, that wasn’t true. It still bit hard enough to kill, but instead of it burning, it chilled.

Miros knew his trail well and knew the rock formation was on the horizon before he saw it. A long, broad plateau of rock jutted out from the sands, tall and weathered, its top sloping down a long angle. It didn’t offer much at first appearance; no trees grew around it for shade or food, no lakes or cacti were around for water. From a distance, it looked virtually useless except maybe for lizards to lie atop and bask in the sun, but Miros knew better. As he led the camel towards it, a small opening became visible. It was easy to miss, especially at a distance.

That’s because Miros had a brown cloth hang over the entrance the same colour as the rock face. Not many people ventured out this way that weren’t guided by him, but he still liked to ensure his secrets stayed that way.

They reached the rock and Miros jumped off his camel. Holding it by the reins, he pushed back the cloth and led his mount inside. His customer did the same.

The inside of the cavern thrummed with heat absorbed from the unrelenting sun, but it would cool soon. The space inside had enough room to sequester the camel mounts while leaving plenty of space for the two human travellers. Miros tied his camel’s reins to the wooden post staked into the ground and once his customer had also restrained his mount to a separate post, they went within.

“Here is where we will spend the night,” Miros said, showing the cave’s deepest recess. A number of sleeping bags lay flat on the ground, all around the circular edge of the wall. The remnants of a burned out campfire remained in the centre. “I’ll be sure to clean up that fire. We’ll have plenty of heat tonight. As soon as the sun rises, we’ll be off. It’s less than a day to my settlement, and from there you can head out on your... expedition, or whatever you’re planning to do.”

The bearded man removed his head covering and inspected their sleeping arrangements. “Better than anywhere else we’ve slept so far.”

“I guess that’s a close to a ‘good job!’ or ‘thanks a lot, pal!’ I’m going to get, huh?” Miros said.

But he didn’t care. Not really. His eyes edged back to Rali as he returned to his camel and began removing the saddle bags, dropping them unceremoniously on the ground. They thudded, thick with... something valuable, surely. Once the old man was sleeping, Miros would find out what he harboured.

And then work out if it was worth killing for.

---

Miros opened his eyes slowly, gradually introducing them to the flickering light of the fire. He looked to Rali. The boisterous snoring indicated that the coast was clear. Shifting out of the sleeping bag so as to not cause any sound, Miros stood and crept out of the sleeping area. The camels sat on the sand, their heads flat on the ground. His target was just beyond them; bulging saddle bags, filled with all sorts of possessions.

Kneeling before the bags, Miros unbuckled the first one and lifted the flap to reveal…

Sand?

Valari dunked his hands into the bag, expecting to find something buried within. There was nothing. Just … sand.

He opened each bag, one after another, and found more and more sand. What the hell was he doing, carrying bags of damn sand? The stuff was all over the place, for starters. And why was he storing it in the first place? He had no food, no water, and more importantly, no money! At least Miros didn’t need to bury another body. Still, he had to wonder at the mental state of an old man tracking sand through the desert and about to head out into the uncharted zones of Mesa Roja with no supplies.

“I had a feeling about you.”

Miros froze, his breath captured by his tightened throat. Rali’s voice penetrated the silence so suddenly that Miros’ hand had already grasped the knife concealed by his shin-wraps. He fought the urge to twist and stab the old man. After all, the content of his bags was as rare as the ground they walked on. What point was there in murdering him if he didn’t plan to steal anything?

And yet there was always the chance that word would spread, that Miros Valari could not be trusted. His only source of revenue would dry up. The only service he could provide to the world that few others could – the safe route between Karim and his home settlement – would be worthless if every prospective customer saw him as a thief. Perhaps that was a little paranoid – after all, Rali was heading into the deep unknown, likely to never return at all – but could he risk his livelihood on a chance it might not happen?

“Do it, son,” Rali said in a quiet voice, as if he was imparting some heartfelt piece of advice. “It’s the only way you’ll truly survive.”

Valari clenched his teeth. That was all he needed to hear, even if it didn’t make sense for the bearded man to goad Miros into murdering him.

Miros rose from his crouched position and slashed upwards with his knife. Rali stepped back, hands behind his back, dodging the slice with ease. Miros lunged at him and stabbed forward, but Rali seemed to almost slide across the sandy ground and slam a palm into Miros’ knife wielding hand, deflecting the attack. Using the momentum, Miros spun and blindly swung, but his blade found no target.

“You got some moves, old man,” Miros said, repressing the anger that argued with his composure. “I’m surprised you haven’t even got a nick on you yet.”

Rali smiled, his entirely too youthful eyes glinting in the firelight. “It seems you’re nothing more than a common bandit. How disappointing. I would’ve enjoyed a fight with a real warrior.”

Miros snarled and charged. The knife moved in a frenzy, as if it had taken over his arm, thirsty for flesh to sink into. Every slice, every stab, every swing, Rali evaded. Every miss infuriated Valari even more, driving him to hit him at least once. But the harder he tried, the easier it seemed for Rali to weave through the blade strikes like some spontaneous dance. The worst part was that the old man barely seemed to be exerting himself. He ducked, stepped and spun like he knew exactly where Miros was going to attack.

After a full bodied lunge that found air yet again, Miros stumbled and fell to the ground. He panted as sweat clung to his face. He clasped a handful of sand in his free fingers. How was he doing this?

“Have you worn yourself out yet?” Rali asked, leaning over to the side.

Miros turned sharply and hurled the knife at Rali, hoping the unexpected attack would catch the bearded man off guard. Instead he shot up an arm and splayed his fingers as if planning to catch the spinning blade. Yet something else happened that widened Miros’ eyes.

The knife hovered in mid-air, mid-spin, the blade angled towards Rali. Particles of silver floated around the knife, moving in an unseen wind. The knife noticeably vibrated, as if its momentum fought whatever magic held it in place, but it did not otherwise move.

“H-how?” Miros said, pointing at the surreal phenomenon. He had never seen anything like that before. Was this guy some sort of sorcerer? Why did that scare him so much?

Probably because I don’t stand a chance and I’m only just realising it, he thought. Rali’s going to kill me.

Rali lowered his hand and walked around the suspended weapon. “Is this how you want it to end, Miros? Cowering in some forsaken cave, stabbed by your own knife, your red blood going unnoticed in the red sand?”

The bearded man held out an open hand, palm facing up, and clicked his fingers. The silver motes imprisoning Miros’ airborne weapon dissipated and the knife fell into Rali’s awaiting grasp.

Miros gulped but found his throat dry and dusty. He had killed before – more times than he would admit to himself – and never had he been close to losing the fights that ended in those murders. That was largely because those murders happened while his victims were sleeping, unaware of Miros’ intentions. As he backed away from Rali, staring at the knife tip that ended so many lives, he wondered if it would now end his.

Rali put his hands behind his back, still holding the knife. “Is this how you’ve lived your life, son? Robbing the people you’re supposed to be protecting? Murdering them if they discover you in the act?”

Miros glared at Rali. Was this man going to lecture him before striking the coup de grace?

“I’m not going to kill you,” Rali said, as if he had just read Miros’ thoughts. “Unless of course, you give me a reason.”

“So what are you going to do to me?” Miros said, trying to find the courage he normally projected and failing. He at least stood up, brushing sand from his trousers, meeting Rali’s gaze.

“I can’t have you continuing on like this, son,” Rali said. His voice was laden with concern. His words were so genuine but Miros couldn’t tell why. He had just tried to rob and then kill him. Why was he being so level headed, so calm? “You’ve obviously hurt people in the past, and you’ll continue to hurt more if you stay on this path. But worst of all... you’re hurting yourself. More than you can possibly know.”

“What?” Miros said. He found Rali’s presence, his composure, somehow affecting. Like he had to know what this man meant, what he knew.

“You don’t want this life, son. There is a better way. A way that gives you completeness. On a level so deep, so powerful and absolute, you’ll only ever want to help others. Because there is nothing more for you to become.”

“Impossible,” Miros said. “Life is cruel and bleak. It stomps you into the ground, gives you a chance to stand, and then stomps on you again. You’re living in some nonsense fairy tale.”

Rali chuckled. “It certainly can seem like nonsense, especially at the beginning. There is a deep truth that cannot be ignored or refuted, but the aspects around it... well, it’s the stuff of legend.”

“You aren’t making any sense.”

Rali revealed the knife again. He held it out to Miros, uncurling his fingers from the handle. Before Miros could even consider stealing it back, Rali’s eyes shone silver. A silver light suffused the knife, and before Miros’ eyes, it transmogrified into sand, pouring out of Rali’s hand.

“Everything is sand. We came from it, and so one day will it claim us. One day, all will be sand. In that, son... there is a simple truth that will transform you.”

Miros blinked, staring at the raised pile of sand that was once his knife.

“I’m offering you a choice,” Rali said. “A life in prison... or a life of wholeness.”

---

The present day

Sand whipped at Miros’ face and the exposed skin along his arms. Pulling up his cloth mask, he breathed in deep as he left the spinning vortex behind him. As soon as his body passed through the rolling wall of sand, it simply ceased. The sand storm would be waiting for him again, one day.

He flexed his fingers. The air and gravity in Mesa Roja felt... lighter somehow. It had been two hundred and fifty years since he had experienced it, so maybe his memories were faded.

Where did he start? There was so much to accomplish, and unlike his training, he only had one lifetime to complete it in.

First of all, he thought to himself, it’s time to get out of the desert.

Miros took his first step back into his old world, his body pressing the footprint deep into the sand. Knowing that the journey ahead would be long, arduous and challenging, he smiled anyway.