Way Of The Wind

• Bethany Pilbeam, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2016

It has been said that out here, on an endless stretch of desert, the biggest killer is the heat, the sun, the constant burning accompanied by a lack of water.
I disagree.
I’d say the biggest killer is the wind, at least, that is how it seems to me.
The wind…it whips and cuts and screams and stabs and deceives. It deceives better than even the devil himself. One moment a soft breeze against my skin, the next, it’s throwing sand in my face and assaulting my back with a blade of fire.
I fell into false hope two nights ago. I’d sat on a rocky outcrop, watching the sun as it slunk under the horizon. Around me, the wind had shifted and turned, kicking up dust and spinning it in a lazy dance. I’d heard its soft whisper and watched as it painted the sky with an utterly magnificent mix of warm red, orange, yellow and pink. In the distance the wind brushed away the harsh lines and filled the desert with a deep orange, reflecting the sky as if it were a great sea of water.
It was in that moment that I was lured into a cage of false security, the belief that a land this beautiful could not harm me.
It was that same night that my supplies ran out.
It felt like a lifetime ago, that peaceful serenity. I now see that I was tricked into thinking that the desert wasn’t what I thought it was, rather, what was, was a most rare calm. The calm before the storm.
Ahead of me now I see dark clouds of dust pounding across the desert land, storming towards me like a herd of wild beasts.
As I feel the powerful push of the wind and the sting of sand in my eyes I understand…It dawns on me how wild and untamed the desert is. That despite the way the wind paints the fiery sunsets it really is the place that people call beautifully deadly. It is an artist of death itself.
The mass of sand, dirt and darkness is almost upon me and I can hear the loud curses of the wind as it shoves me to the ground. Above, the sun dims, as if a golden night has descended.
The dust, the wind, it surrounds me, consuming every inch of my being. Looking to where the sun stood I cover my face in a feeble attempt to stop the wind and its force.
Lips dry and face cracked, I sit on the desert floor, allowing the wind to swallow me whole.