Dunes of Mind

A Story by Thorne

When man travels where he should not.

Dunes of Mind


1.
      Graham looked, but he did not see.

      The yellow, sun-lit seas of dune provided a remarkable scene. Wide-spanning waves of sand with little sign of inhabitation, smoothened by western winds and eastern breezes; a clear sky and its blazing sun overseeing the lack of occurrence. It was an endless desert so typical, yet strewn by an aura of otherworldly presence which could not be named nor objectively perceived. It felt as if Graham's mind and body were but mere spectators looking on from a distance-- yet at the same time felt so utterly close to its constructs, as if a crucial part of its physical actuality. Typically, these abandoned, soulless scenes instilled a daunting sense of despair and desolation in Graham, but on this particular moment there was only an injection of peace: banal, senseless peace. The wind blew past his ears, serving as a song of tranquility composed by long-forgotten creators; and the grains of sand that filled the idle waves of wind gave the area a sense of dynamic existence, as if ever-changing yet ultimately remaining so very familiar at its natural core. Graham, strangely captivated by the surrounding essence, examined the view, his dull-green eyes scanning their surroundings for signs of significance; his half-rotten, bandaged hand itching on the pummel of his sheathed sword. There was little to see, and while that greatly diminished his chances of finding that which he sought anytime soon (not including his probability of survival), it was not that which delivered a fear of boundless proportion to Graham's mind. Instead it was the responsibility that now nestled itself upon his shoulders, obliging him to achieve his goals alone, without direction from locals or friends, for it seemed these lands held neither. Regardless, he took a step forward, and then another, and another. And soon he found himself walking down the formidable hill of sand he'd called his vantage point, now venturing into the wastes spread out in front of him.

      Graham would've shrieked, had the sand-stopping cloth covering his mouth not objected. But even if it hadn't, he doubted the approaching figure would've second-guessed his steady march, moving loosely in the knight's direction. With a thrilling mix of anxiety and phobia conquering his voice, he spoke up. "E-excuse me--, hey!" It did not take particularly long for Graham to notice how astonishingly loud his voice bellowed through the empty vista, his cry for help echoing near-endlessly through the dunes of silence with a seeming abundance of self-indulgence. Unsurprisingly, the ruggedly cloaked figure responded: slowly but surely, his silent steps came to an end, the dark void beneath his worn brown hood beaming at the misplaced knight in front of him. And while the somebody kept his distance, he did not seem overly cautious or otherwise prepared for possible miscreancy. In fact, his immediate aura was that of calm and transparency, of trust. And for reasons unbeknownst to his conscious mind, Graham smiled beneath his woolen mask. However, soon he realized that seconds had passed, and that he'd been keeping the character waiting in a period of silence after his initial call. Quickly (and somewhat awkwardly), he used his free hand to pull down the cloth covering his mouth, displaying his ill-bearded face to the robed- and hooded figure a meter or three in front of him as to allow himself easier speech. "Sorry, I eh-- I'm looking for the city, and had hoped that you could provide directions," Graham spoke in a somewhat restrained voice. The male voice with which the figure replied was very particular-- not abnormal, but rather immensely soothing and fatherly, yet in a sense very distant, almost as if the quiet and subdued tone with which he spoke echoed nonetheless. "The city?", he inquired calmly, "Which one?", his counter-query implying the existence of multiple. This surprised Graham, and he did not appreciate surprises, especially not while running on the social time bomb that is conversation, openly forced to reply competently within a short period of time; to swiftly provide an avid representation of your persona. This kind of interpersonal pressure was like a plague to him, and as a direct consequence, to his surroundings as well. The grip on his sword's pummel tightened, not out of aggression or caution, but out of sheer frustration. Disregarding the pain this inflicted on his wounded hand, he murmured out a reply. "I... I'm not quite familiar with the name." Graham cleared his throat. "Nor did I know these lands held cities more than one." The stranger remained silent for a moment, as if carefully examining Graham's spoken words, much to the knight's angst. "You're not from here, are you?", he asked in rhetorical fashion. Graham cleared his throat preventively, as to avoid unwanted crackling, "I'm a stranger to these lands", he replied, quite surprised by his own verbal fluency thus far. In response, a subtle and unexpected chuckle flew from beneath the figure's hood, "Aren’t we all?", he replied, noticeably amused by his own cryptic demeanor. "But stranger I may be, familiar I once was. You wish help finding your city?" "I do", Graham responded, nodding eagerly. "Then come."