Sands Of The Way

• Ptolemy Horan, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2017

The cool water sloshed in the pail. Careful not to spill any, Mikel prepared himself for the long, hot, forty kilometre walk home. He thought about the cool, vividly coloured hibiscus ice tea that his mother would prepare with the water, he imagined the little mint leaves from the garden floating in the clay mug. The wind exploded and flung sand at his legs. Although it stung he had built a resistance to it over time. The sun had peeked out from under one of the many sand dunes and it looked as if the sand dune had been rimmed with a rich, yellow gold. Mikel swapped carrying hands and continued walking on his mental track. About an hour later the sun had fully risen and activated the true rich reds and oranges of the desert sand. But something wasn't right. Sweat pricked the back of Mikels' neck and he turned around, suddenly becoming aware of a constant hiss. At first, he thought it was a giant red cloud, but a closer look revealed that it was rippling and warping, twisting and squirming. A fire storm. Soon, he realised that if he didn't move he would be swallowed by this glowing beast, and shortly after, the village would be burnt to the ground. Then an equally terrifying thought struck him, today was the ceremony of their new village leader "Amare ayo". This meant that the whole village would be out in the village square, exposed and ready to be scorched and burnt to death. He knew that he had to try and warn them. He ran, dropping the pail and letting the water seep into the sand. With the weight of the heavy pail gone, he ran with ease. His mother had always said he was natural on his feet. After around eight kilometres he started to feel the heat. He was at the crest of the spine, the only dune that stood before the seemingly infinite flat that the village stood compact and detailed. Home. The heat had almost doubled and sweat was pouring off his neck and torso. He risked a glance back and saw that the fire storm had sliced the distance between them by at least half a kilometre. As he got closer he started yelling "fire storm! Fire storm!" He gasped, out of breath. His lungs, burning like the fire storm that would kill him if he didn't run faster. The village must have heard his cries as the people trickled out of the town square like colourful water. He knew that they were heading for the Hobb River. Five hundred metres later he was in the village, racing through the abandoned streets dodging colourful crates full of sweet ripe fruits. The Hobb River was now visible. He ran. River. Cool. He let its currents take him. Away.