My Hand at Fiction

Terrified by the mystery that lay ahead, but pressing on, an old man made his way across an endless desert. Family in tow, carrying various livestock animals and pushing the rest forward, this man was headstrong. Something better was on the other side of all this dust and sand, and even if he never reached it, perhaps his family would.

Last night at the camp they had made, his wife had lost her calm. The tents nearby knew it. He had a lump on his head from something flung in the dark, and now the subservient lack of eye contact among those following him was for yet another reason. To walk for days, weeks, without a visible mark of progress had been a trying test to these people. If it were not for the memory of the encounter that caused this expedition, he would have turned back long ago. But now, he could not remember if it were an encounter or only a dream. Even so, a dream would have been enough to move him to such a place, if not only for the hope of such a place. Things would be so much easier there, with lush vegetation, fresh cool water--the water alone kept him going now! His children and grandchildren would laugh and play together. He could offer them cakes and milk.

He turned to look at those children and grandchildren. They were worse than before. But when a god comes down, uses his own voice and speaks, one does not second guess. He does as he's told. The gods that his father had taught him to serve never seemed to take notice of the people down here. Only by trial and error of various gifts to each god told the people how to persuade them to release the waters or heal the sick. But this, directly speaking to a man, this was monumental. One does not ignore a voice like that, especially when promises are made.

Hopefully this was a trustworthy god, not one who toyed with the people and watched them suffer. He tried not to think of that possibility, because even if this was a cruel god, choosing to do as he says would be wiser than going against him.